


The many miles we walked.

by ForReasonsNotKnown



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon divergence and compliance in places, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Quickly progresses to higher honour Arthur, Starts with mid honour Arthur, spoilers for the game obviously, tags added as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-23 04:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForReasonsNotKnown/pseuds/ForReasonsNotKnown
Summary: "Come along." Charles leaves, headed towards the horses. Arthur shakes his head, trying to get the odd feeling in his gut to leave, Pearson is looking at his feet when he looks over at him, and he just sighs, grumbling into his coat collar before following Charles back out into the cold.The story of the game, mostly, but with something between Arthur and Charles and a different path.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43





	1. Colter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've recently started my third play-through of this game and decided screw it, I'm writing this bitch. I can see this getting pretty long, tagged explicit in advance of things planned for later. Tags will be updated as we go and any warnings will be in the notes at the top of each chapter. 
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoy this! It's been a while since I've posted anything so I may be a little rusty, but mental illness really does fire up the creative process. 
> 
> Have a wonderful day/night :)

Arthur _hates_ snow. It's a new revelation, he'd never thought about it too much before, but now, riding into a blizzard, the wind whipping the snow up something fierce, frustration and hate for the elements was all he could feel, Mother Nature was surely punishing him for something. Taima is strong beneath him and he pats her neck, he's glad he'd ended up with her out in this, she'd always been sturdy. The shape of buildings ahead of him brings him to a halt, there's no light and holding up his lantern does little to illuminate the path ahead. He hesitates at first, he'd thought he'd seen buildings before and had been thoroughly irritated when he'd been met with a series of boulders instead. He kicks Taima into a moderate trot, she whinnies in irritation, ears flicking back and forth bracing herself against the wind. He leans forward again, patting her neck, pushing some of the snow from her skin, he hates to think how cold she must be.

"C'mon girl, just a little further." She trots on and the dark shapes become clearer through the gloom. They trot up the path that divides the two lines of buildings, what must have once been a lively little town is now diminished to a couple of dilapidated shacks. He'd heard of a bad storm up this way a while back and as he examines the weather-ravaged buildings, he's glad this storm isn't as destructive. Taima kicks at the floor beneath them and Arthur leans forward, passing half a carrot into her mouth, she makes an appreciative sound he can hardly hear over the storm. They had been running for days, they were all starving, even the horses. He sighs, pressing his face down into the collar of his coat. He looks about the town again, the dilapidated buildings, wincing against the whistle of the wind, his cheeks burn, he wishes he'd let his beard grow.

It'll do, for now. It's not like there's much choice.

"Good job, you did real good," he coos, brushing snow away from her face. He turns back towards where he'd come from, making sure to follow the steps in the snow. It's not far, but he needs to be fast, before the prints are snowed over. "Let's go get em."

He brings Taima as close to a canter as she can manage until the lights and noise of the caravan are just ahead, so he slows, stopping and addressing Dutch when he calls out to him. He turns, and leads them to as close to salvation as can be found up in these mountains. He dismounts and goes about helping the others, getting Davey down from the wagon and all the women inside. Jack is huddled tightly against Abigail, her coat open to accommodate him. This weather will be rough on him, they need the storm to pass as fast as possible.

They all pile into the middle cabin, and Arthur has to make a conscious effort to ignore the great hacking cough Hosea lets out. This weather will be terrible for him, he knows, he needs to get them down off these damn mountains as soon as possible. It doesn't surprise him when Abigail announces that Davey is dead. They'd all known it was coming once they'd seen the gunshot in his gut, there wasn't much coming back from that, even for a man like Davey. There's no time for him to think about it, a few days more of this and they'll all be on death's door, they need to set up camp, get warm, dry, find some food. So he follows Dutch out of the cabin, taking the opportunity on the doorstep to ask just what the hell had happened in Blackwater. Dutch seems hesitant to respond.

"We missed you, that's what happened." It's not an answer, but acceptable for now. There's more important things he needs to focus on.

"Hey, you need horses?" They can hardly hear Charles' shout over the wind, but he's grateful nonetheless, climbing up onto Taima's back and silently agreeing with Dutch as he scolds Charles for being out in the storm still with his injured hand. Truth is they do _need_ him, more now than ever. So they need him to get that hand of his healed up, rather than continuing to work himself to death. Charles concedes and heads inside; Arthur doesn't miss how he hisses and clutches at his bandaged hand. 

They ride back out into the storm and Arthur presses his face into the fur lining of his coat, fighting against the shivers going down his spine. It's not the snow he hates, he decides. He's been out in it enough and paid it no mind. But the _wind_ , that was what he hated, blowing the snow directly into his face and making the horses sway uneasily.

They find Micah a short distance down the path and he bites back the urge to make his displeasure known, holding his tongue and allowing Micah to lead them to the homestead he'd found. He's so worn down he just follows what Dutch says without much thought, crouching down in the shed whilst Dutch approaches the cabin. It's a study looking building, still in use as it is. If the folks here are amenable, they could move the women and Jack down here maybe till the storm blows over, best have them in somewhere warm without holes in the roof. Hosea too. He ponders for a moment what it would be like, having a ranch so isolated away from the world, up here at the top of it. A part of him likes that idea, but all thoughts of it are scratched away when Micah whisper shouts his name, pointing to the dead body in front of him. He curses and lifts his head, raising his gun as the O'Driscolls out themselves and recognise Dutch. From there it's all noise and chaos, bullets flying and more men appearing from the shed. He kills them with little more than mild irritation, chasing down one who tries to escape and shooting him in the back.

Some would call that cowardly, but in this storm, he calls it mercy.

Dutch praises him for the good shot and they enter the house. They take whatever they can find, and Arthur's stomach growls. He shovels some dry crackers into his mouth and catches sight of a photo frame above the fire. He doesn't want to think about what the men must've done with the woman in the picture. Poor bastard, he thinks. There were folks about who sure as hell deserved the bad things they came across, but he'd never liked senseless violence, never liked the indifference for hardworking, genuine people that gangs like the O'Driscolls had. Dutch and Hosea had taught him better than that. He finds a coin purse in one of the chests and feels bad about taking it. But even the two dollars it contains are crucial now.

He finds a bracelet by the bed and leaves it. 

They leave the house and Micah goes in, Arthur trudging through the snow down to the barn. He pushes open the door cautiously, but clearly not as cautiously as he should have. Before he knows it he's on the floor, some bastard on top of him that he makes quick work of, throwing him off of him and beating his face to a pulp. He vaguely registers him shouting something about his cousin through smashed teeth. Dutch appears casually in the doorway as he has the man by his collar, fist raised and ready to finish the job. Dutch watches, amused, as Arthur lands several more hits on him, stopping once he feels the O'Driscoll's nose break under his fist. He spills his secrets immediately, coughing against the blood in his mouth, tells him where Colm is hiding out, some other dilapidated town a little further down the mountains. Dutch leaves him to it, and he debates for a moment. It would be a waste of a bullet, he could choke the life out of him. But he's tired, so he lets him go. He won't get far anyways in this weather.

He calms the horse in the stables and leads him out into the snow, Taima will get a break for a while then, at least until Charles is able to ride again. They're getting ready to leave when commotion starts inside, they burst through the door to find Micah treating a terrified woman to his usual charm. Only she was very clearly the woman he'd seen in the photo, terrified and screaming wildly at them, brandishing a knife. It all happens so fast, Arthur shouting at him to lay off, glad to have a reason to try and land a punch on him, Micah storming towards her and throwing the table over, launching a lantern on to the floor, catching the whole damn place alight. Dutch manages to get her to calm down, and quickly escorts her out. She shakes from more than the cold as they lead her out of the burning house. As they get her up onto Dutch's horse, fire bursts through the roof and the horses start to spook. She tells them her name is Sadie, she doesn't manage to say much else. Arthur doesn't blame her. They ride back out towards Colter and Arthur pauses on the hill, looking back down to the ranch off in the distance, a great amber glow amidst the grey of the storm.

When they get back, he lets Ms. Grimshaw leads him to his room, trudging through the snow on aching feet. He collapses down onto the musty bed, and passes out almost instantly.

***

He rides out with Javier to find John the next day, the dumbass having gotten himself trapped even higher up the mountain, on a remote pass, chased up there by wolves. He asks Javier about Blackwater, and he too seems reluctant. 

"Dutch killed a girl in a bad way," He'd paused for a long moment, in thought, before remembering himself. "But it was a bad situation." He'd added quickly. 

After climbing further up the mountain, hunching through small gaps in the cliff face and near sliding off the edge, they'd found John half dead and shivering, bloody gashes across his cheek. There was no denying he was in a bad way, but Arthur chose not to acknowledge it, knowing the man as he did, he knew the best thing he could offer was teasing and ribbing him. So he does, but nevertheless carries his limp form on his shoulder, taking care not to jostle him too much, but enough to keep him awake, Arthur knows that if he falls asleep now he won't wake back up. _He'll owe him for this, he will_. He distracts and kills the wolves that rush them as they're reaching the horses and race down the mountain as more appear from the woods, firing off wild shots to deter them. 

They ride through the stream a while, losing the scent, before riding back to Colter, not wanting to push too hard but strongly aware of the need to get John back quickly. He just about survives the ride back, though Arthur wonders if he regrets that once Abigail starts immediately shouting at him. He lets out a dry laugh and lights a cigarette, heading back towards his room.

The storm rages on for a few more days and they stay locked in their cabins, huddled up round the fireplaces. Arthur goes without food for most of those days, he's not going out, he doesn't need it, so he treats his hunger with the cigarettes he'd found in the bedside drawer, and waits for the thaw to begin.

He wakes early one morning and notices the wind no longer roars outside, and his room is filled with bright white light. He peers out the window, and finds that while snow still falls, it is far lighter, and the sky is relatively clear. The world is quite outside, sound muffled by the blanket of snow coating everything, trees drooping, laden with snow. Hosea and Dutch are huddled together by the fire, talking in low voices, scheming, no doubt. He nods to them before heading out, knowing they were having a conversation he wasn't to hear.

He heads to the horse he'd found last night, hitched up by Taima. He pats her lightly on the neck as he reaches them, before facing his horse, rubbing his nose and smoothing down his mane, adjusting the badly fitted saddle for a while until Pearson calls him over. He listens to him complain about the lack of food till he feels the impending threat of yet another of Pearson's navy stories, he was nearly as bad as Uncle. _Nearly_. It was a fine line, but it was there. 

"I _do not_ want to hear what you got up to in the Navy, Mr. Pearson." He vaguely notices Charles wander over, warming his hands over the fire, but he's far too preoccupied with Pearson. While he knows they need food, and Pearson is right, he cannot prevent himself from ribbing the man, especially over his voice of Lenny and Bill to go hunting, _of all people to_ -

"Enough of this, we'll go find something, c'mon Arthur." He's short with them, firm, which is nothing new, but the irritation in his voice is very clear, it's deliberate, he thinks. Arthur would protest if it was an option, but someone needs to go find them some food, may as well be him, he's a decent shot after all. But then Pearson is passing him a suspicious looking jar that he reluctantly accepts.

" _Assorted Salted Offal_ ," he reads, looking to Charles who makes a face. "Starving would be preferable."

"C'mon let's go." Charles says, turning to leave, but Arthur won't be so easily distracted.

"You can't go hunting, look at your hand." He tries to protest.

"I can't stand around here listening to you two," Arthur shuts his mouth. "If there's game in those hills I'll find it, and you can kill it." Arthur sees the logic, he does, but they're spread thin enough as is, they need Charles to heal.

"You need to rest Charles-"

" _You think this is rest?_ " He interjects sharply, the closest to angry Arthur's seen him. Charles looks him up and down, brow furrowed, he almost looks disappointed. He doesn't know why he does it, but he dips his head down, conceding. "Come along." Charles leaves, headed towards the horses. Arthur shakes his head, trying to get the odd feeling in his gut to leave, Pearson is looking at his feet when he looks over at him, and he just sighs, grumbling into his coat collar before following Charles back out into the cold.

As soon as he's outside Charles is forcing his bow into his hand, and he wishes he were back in the storm, at least that had been pretty simple. He'd never gotten the hang of them, always fumbling with the arrows and lining up too slow. He tries to refuse but Charles' logic is sound, he'll scare everything for miles around off with a gun and he thinks his revolver will be even worse to hunt with than the bow.

The snow has picked up again, but it's still light, so they settle into a trot out of camp; Charles' mood seems to improve instantly, so Arthur takes the time to catch up with him. Charles had always been one of the hardest working around camp, the past few days, unable to even hold his bow, must have been terrible for him. Arthur can empathise with that, and pins his prior frustrations with him on that. Charles leads, and they fall into light conversation, falling back onto the trials of the last few days.

"You've had a lot put on you, I wish I could've done more." He doesn't expect that response, and it certainly wasn't what he'd meant when he'd spoken. He blurts out a bad response, and is grateful when Charles changes the subject to Blackwater. It bothered him still, Dutch not being upfront with him, nobody wanting to say what had happened. He knew some of the blame would have to lie at Micah's feet, he seemed to enjoy bringing chaos down upon all of them, he could never understand what Dutch saw in him, what made him so different to every other self centred maniac they'd come across in their travels. But he had to trust in Dutch, he'd always done right by him and besides, Arthur was handy with a gun and fast with his fists, thinking about deeper matters such as a man's character wasn't his responsibility, nor his business, he supposed.

They ride for a while in silence, it's comfortable. They hadn't ridden together too often, but Arthur had always enjoyed it when they had, the pair of them always able to settle into a companionable silence, broken only by the horses and occasionally by Arthur singing or humming absentmindedly; Charles had never seemed to mind, he'd certainly never commented upon it. Charles points out the patches of grass sticking out from the blanket of snow, and they slow their pace. He listens to him speak about the wind, questions where he's unsure. At his age he should know more of this stuff he thinks, considering how long he's spent out in the wilderness. Charles _hushes_ him as they travel down the river, and it's odd, he certainly would've had a lot to say if anyone else had done it. _Don't wanna scare the game off_ , he tells himself, that's why he doesn't even make a short snide comment. He blames the twist in his stomach on hunger, the only thing he'd eaten in the last few days had been a hunk of stale bread.

This made the offal in his satchel no more appetising.

They dismount, Arthur slinging the bow over his shoulder and Charles crouching over some tracks. He follows them through the snow, entirely unsure of what he's doing. Charles encourages him, and he represses the urge to turn around and say that Charles was meant to be doing the tracking here, _not him_. _It's a useful skill to have_ , he tells himself. It's true, it makes sense, he doesn't know why that explanation doesn't sit right in his chest. He ignores it and focuses on the task at hand. 

They follow the tracks until they're met with several deer down by the river, they stop, crouched down in the snow, and Arthur feels ridiculous and far too unsure of himself as he lines up his shot. He vaguely hears Charles' encouragement from behind him as he lets the arrow fly, feeling his chest swell with pride as it pierces the closest deer's neck. Charles congratulates him and they move on, quickly downing another deer further up the hill. They load up the horses and Arthur finds Charles waiting for him by the stream, leading the way back to camp as he approaches.

The snow has mostly stopped now, and Arthur notes that, under different circumstances, he'd find this place rather beautiful. As it is, he's had enough of the snow, he wants solid ground under his feet again. He much prefers being able to see the ground and not having to gauge how far into it his foot will go before he can stand steadily. But it's a good catch, two deer like this will keep them all fed for a few days at least, and the thaw will begin soon too, if the weather continues the way it is. He allows himself some hope.

"I knew you'd be okay with that bow." Charles says, sounding genuinely proud. It catches him off guard, he thinks it shouldn't, but it does and he moves to deflect the feeling immediately.

"Yeah, it's easier when they ain't shootin' back." Charles laughs, and he's back in it again. The man didn't laugh often, serious as he was, but it's good, he thinks. The last few days have been hard, if he can make a well deserving man like Charles a little more joyful for even just a moment, he can easily ignore the odd feeling he's had in his gut since they'd set off, since Charles had _told him off._ They talk as they ride, about how things seem to be getting better, about finally getting off the damn mountain. They joke about Pearson and his booze, and talk about Sadie, who still had that wild look in her eye. He didn't blame her, she'd lost her husband and watched her home burn, he didn't wish that on anyone. They spot a bear up ahead, the horses beginning to spook when they catch sight of it. He suggests they hunt it, but listens when Charles turns it down, he's right, pressing their luck is the worst thing they could do right now, especially when testing their luck involves a big angry bear.

"We've never talked much, you and me." He doesn't mean to say it, but he does, and continues. He means it though, they hadn't spoken much in the time Charles had been running with them. He regretted that now, they seemed to always be on the same page, he knew Charles had a sane head on his shoulders. A smart one, too, which easily put him above most of the men in camp. Him too, he thought. He talks about the mess they're in, how Charles must've had far different expectations of running with them than this. "I just thought you would've moved on by now." He regrets it as soon as he says it, the way it sounds, so accusatory, he goes to correct it, to brush past it but Charles is faster.

"You want me to move on?" Charles sounds surprised, and Arthur curses himself internally again.

"No, no not at all," he pauses, not wanting to seem too eager, trying to find neutrality, that safe line where he doesn't need to worry about what comes out of his mouth.

"I just know you can run it alone no problem." There it is, a way out.

Charles tells him of running alone, and they joke, but he can't even imagine it. While he needs his own space, his own time away from the big group of them, he'd ran with them most of his life, to be alone with nobody to trust, he couldn't live that way.

" _We need you now, more than ever._ " He says, and he means it, Charles nods, contemplating before changing the subject. They ride on, and the conversation moves along with them, Arthur thanking Charles for letting him use Taima. She was one of the strongest horses they had, as Appaloosas often were. Picky, too, more than one of them had received attitude from her when they'd passed too close or tried to hook her up onto a wagon, he'd always liked that about her. Yet with Charles she was so gentle, borderline obsessed. They'd spent so long together though it made sense, he supposed.

They hitch the horses and dismount and Arthur pauses as he begins to lift the doe up onto his shoulder. He thanks Charles sheepishly, and is relieved when he replies by saying he only taught him a little, focusing on pulling the doe up onto his shoulder without using his hand too much. He finds Uncle inside, and distracts himself by making jabs at him and Pearson, appreciative of the strong booze he's handed and the fire he warms his hands over. He tells Charles to rest his hand and he, inevitably, dodges him, saying it'll be fine in a few days. Arthur is too cold to argue and lets it go.

He goes back to his room and pulls out his journal, he sketches Taima, hitched up outside, her small yet strong frame, unique markings and cautious expression. He slams the journal shut when he starts to draw a rider on her, going to speak to Bill.

The next few days pass in a blur. They storm an O'Driscoll camp and Arthur chases one down, bringing him back to camp at Dutch's say so. Kieran Duffy is his name, and Dutch ties him in the barn to stew for a few days till he's hungry and ready to talk. They find maps and dynamite, the makings of a train robbery, the train belonging to some oil magnate named Leviticus Cornwall. He sounds like the kind of man that deserves this sort of thing, but Hosea seems worried, if his opinion mattered in these things, he'd be inclined to agree with him. They hardly needed trouble like this right now, especially since they were stirring up yet more trouble with the O'Driscolls. Pissing off some wealthy industrialist seemed like a bad idea in their current situation, they had enough people out after them.

Then, before he knows it, he's robbing a train. Of course, the luck of the past few days fails him and the dynamite doesn't go off, so he's on his feet, running with Lenny and Javier to jump onto the train. They both stumble off the edge by Lenny manages to hang on, Arthur pulling him up and making sure he's in one piece. He's a good kid, with a lot of potential, this kind of job would be good for him, he thinks. They fight their way off the train and get it stopped, jumping off to be met with a whole damn army of guards whom they dispense with soon enough, the others finally arriving. He and Charles blow open the locked carriage containing what remains of the guards, and he manages to dig out a stack of bonds from a cabinet along with some brandy. 

As usual, the others leave, off to pack up camp and get off the damned mountain side. He decides to spare the men, corralling them back onto the train and setting it to go, climbing up onto his horse and adjusting his hat before riding back to Colter. He's tired and aching after jumping around on the roof of that damn train, but they're gonna be heading down the mountain soon, so he rides as fast as the snow allows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed this with a comment :)


	2. Of Barfights and Campfires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real warnings for this one folks, bit of story, bit of softness and a whole load of awkward obliviousness. 
> 
> This chapter is inspired by Charles constantly telling me to rest and congratulating me when I sit by the campfire in-game, we love a caring boi.

It's been a quiet two weeks, the calmest they'd had for a while. Charles appreciates the time to rest and reflect, it's a good opportunity to reorient themselves, make plans and prepare for the future. He's up earlier than usual that morning, hunching over against the biting morning air as he sits rolling a cigarette as he does every morning on a rock by the horses. Arthur's horse is gone, he notices, he must have had an even earlier start. No one else is up yet, and he takes the moment to relax, closing his eyes as he takes the first drag of his cigarette. The air is clear here, crisp in the morning, he much prefers it to the humidity and oppressive heat of the states further east. 

It had only taken him a few days to come to the conclusion that he liked this camp. The sun was bright here but didn't unleash oppressive heat, still close enough to the mountains that the air held a chill. He didn't like how they loomed over Valentine, but the country itself was beautiful, he could see why the fight between the native tribe and the army had been so bitter here, rich lands for farming and oil. He'd spent the first week feeling useless, being chided by the others when they caught him doing the chores while his hand was still bandaged. It was healed now, but the scar would stay, he knew, another for the collection. He takes another drag of his cigarette and studies the glassy skin tilting it into the light of the early morning, the sky still swollen purple above him.

The sound of hooves has him on his feet, wandering to the entrance to camp to see Arthur making his way back into camp, leading his horse by the reigns. He's about to ask why when he catches sight of the buck thrown across the horse's back along with turkeys pinned to each side. He knew plenty of men that would load their horse up so much and add themselves on top, he'd done it before in a pinch and Taima had made her displeasure _very_ clear, it was these things that reaffirmed he could trust Arthur if nothing else. A man who could be kind to his horse was one you didn't need to worry too much about stabbing you in the back. He returns Arthur's nod as he comes into camp, taking another drag of his cigarette and watching him hitch up. He approaches slowly, waiting for Arthur to notice his presence before offering his cigarette, the other man nodding and taking a long drag before handing it back, breathing the smoke out in a slow exhale, eyes closed and shoulders slumping. He grunts a thanks before turning back to his horse, patting down his neck and giving him a sugar cube before moving to remove the buck. 

Charles watches, finishing his cigarette and waiting for Arthur to begin walking to Pearson's table before approaching his horse and grabbing the turkeys. He knows Arthur would try to stop him otherwise. His assumption is proved correct when Arthur turns, having unloaded the buck onto the table, and looks at him with startled surprise. 

"Hey, Charles, you don't need to do that it's fine." He says, speeding his pace and reaching out to grab one of them. Charles is faster, pulling them out of his reach and meeting Arthur's confused expression. 

"It's fine, go sit down, you look exhausted." Arthur doesn't respond to that, dipping his head down in that familiar way before muttering something he can't quite hear and heading off to one of the tables, sitting down with a deep sigh. He settles the turkeys on top of the buck, and takes a moment to have a look at it. A single wound, small, in the head, a clean kill almost certainly with a bow. He smiles to himself, a slight quirk or his lips before he turns back to Arthur, setting off in his direction. 

"The stew will be good today," he says, settling into the chair opposite him. Arthur is flicking through a collection of small cards in his hands, nodding when Charles speaks and not objecting to his company. "What are they?" He asks and Arthur looks at him with an expression he can't read. He'd always been good at reading people, most in their line of work were. But Arthur had seemed to develop a skill unlike any of them, masking whatever he was thinking with something entirely different. It wasn't quite a poker face, it was far more distracting. It frustrated him at times.

"Those little cards you get in fancy cigarettes, been collectin' them lately, met a man down by Bard's Crossing that collects them, pays well." He hands him one with a small drawing of a Mustang and he runs a finger over the rough paper, studying the list on the back of the card before handing it back. 

They sit, for a while, Arthur removing his hat from his head and running his hands through his hair. He didn't often see him without his hat, and now he could see where his hair was beginning to grow longer than usual, curling down under his ears towards his jaw. His beard had remained largely under control, kept to stubble, but his hair seemed to be progressively growing more each day. He wonders for a moment if it's deliberate, before quashing that thought, none of his business, really. It suited him though. Charles pushes that thought from his mind as soon as it materialises.

"Now that we're near a town, I can give you that bow back, get my own one since you're back to work now." It's unexpected, but not. For an outlaw he was strangely considerate. He got that from Hosea, he'd decided a while ago.

"I want you to have it, I've made a new one now anyways," he pauses, considering for a long moment, Arthur seems almost pleased by that answer, so he takes a gamble. "I was gonna give it to you anyways." Arthur's brow furrows, and he hopes his luck holds true.

"You were?" He wonders for a moment if Arthur is surprised at the thought of a gift in general, or just about one from him. Neither thought sits well with him. He decides to push his luck.

"We were scouting ahead once, around the time I first joined, you asked me about hunting since that was most of what I did back then," he pauses for a moment and Arthur nods slowly, seeming to recall the interaction. "You said you wished you knew more, so I thought, after the Blackwater business was done with, I'd teach you some things, so I made you that one weekend when I was hunting deer." Arthur goes silent for a long, drawn out moment and Charles gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. He doesn't tend to worry where his words lead him, but Arthur is his friend, he doesn't want to push or make him feel uncomfortable, doesn't want to treat him like a child. 

"Well, thank you, that's real kind of you." They fall into silence again and Arthur picks at the lining of his gloves, beginning to fray at their edges. Charles looks up at the sky above them, the purple hue of morning beginning to fade and the pale blue dominating, only a few clouds dotting it. He looks to Arthur and feels guilty. He seemed to be the only one who noticed - certainly the only one who ever brought it up, chiding him over the campfire most nights to go to bed already - he looked the most worn down out of all of them, and John had been on death's door until a few days ago. Even now, when they were laying low and recuperating, he worked himself far too hard. It was yet another source of frustration for him. 

"You look tired." He says and Arthur lets out a weak laugh. 

"Couldn't sleep, thought getting on the move for a bit would perk me up." From the way he fails to stifle a yawn into his wrist, he can only assume that this plan had failed him. Charles breaks his gaze and looks around camp. It was still early, and nobody showed any sign of stirring, he turns back to Arthur.

"Go get some more sleep, I don't think anyone is going to be up for a while yet," he pauses, seeing the excuses and deflections forming in Arthur's mind already, watching his eyes flick to the pile of firewood needing to be cut. "You _deserve_ it, Arthur, take the time we have now to _rest._ " Arthur sighs, pressing his fingers between his eyes. He seems to have an argument inside of his head and Charles waits, patience was usually the best way to handle him, he'd began to see. It occurs to him in that moment how similar he sounds to Arthur when they had been in Colter, but at least now they didn't face the threat of imminent death unless they worked themselves into the ground, Arthur was working unnecessarily hard, picking up after everyone else just as he had always seemed to. Finally, he stands from his seat, looking confident but weary. 

"You're right, no use in me being dead on my feet. Let me know if I'm needed," Charles nods and waves him off, watching him walk back towards his tent, pausing as he reaches it and turning back to look at him. "Thank you, for...I-" he cuts himself off nodding to Charles and slinking off into his tent. Charles returns his gesture, adjusting himself before standing and heading to brush down Taima. 

***

Arthur wakes up to Swanson singing from somewhere nearby, and he wishes in that half conscious moment he'd left the man on that _damn bridge_. He rolls over, trying to get back to sleep, but it's no use. He stares up at the canvas of his tent and sighs, stretching his aching muscles and cracking his knuckles, he'd go into town for a bath today, he decides, follow the advise Charles had given him and relax a bit. It's at that moment that he remembers their earlier conversation and finds himself covering his face with his hand, he still didn't know what to think of it. Didn't know what to think of Charles making him his own bow, with plans to teach him to hunt, doesn't know what to make of his concern for his wellbeing - something he'd noticed increasingly over the last few weeks.

Didn't know what to make of the strange feeling in his stomach when he'd said those things.

He sits up, pushing all thoughts of Charles from his head and putting his hat on, standing after a moment and walking to prod at the stew pot, his stomach growls and he serves himself a generous portion, he had caught it, after all. 

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan, that was a good catch." Pearson calls to him from the chuckwagon.

"No problem, you did a good job with this." He says holding up the stew before heading to one of the camp tables to eat. While he liked to make jabs at Pearson over his cooking, he couldn't deny that the stew was pretty damn good. He finishes up, eyeing all the chores around camp that need doing before getting derailed entirely by Dutch calling him over.

He hasn't been into town yet, and now seems as good a time as any, so he mounts up, following Dutch's request of meeting Javier, Bill and Charles in the saloon. He rides leisurely, not too keen on the idea of being back in a town so soon and tiredness still in the corners of his vision. He pats his horse's neck and spurs him to a trot, wincing at the smell of livestock as he crosses the train tracks into town. It's their kind of place, Valentine, filled with delinquents at the edge of civilisation, one of the last stands against the oppressive cities further to the East. The mud isn't ideal though and he dreads the thought of cleaning his horse later. He hitches up outside the saloon and heads inside, finding Javier and Charles standing on unsteady feet beside a pair of working girls. He sighs, steeling himself. Javier has his chest puffed out, introducing Arthur immediately, whether it's meant to be for his gain or Arthur's he's not entirely sure. Charles just sways, drunker than he'd seen him in a while, it was quite the contrast to how he'd been that morning - and how he was usually - calm and collected, reserved, but they hadn't had the chance to drink for a while, this would get it out of his system, he imagined. 

The women turn their attention to him, and irritation spikes in his chest. 

"How much you cost anyways?" He asks, ignoring Javier's sharp look. 

"Well ain't that a nice way to talk to a lady?" One of them replies.

"Oh, I didn't know I was talking to a _lady_." There's more venom in it than there should be, but he ignores it, relieved when they walk away, revealing a line of shots on the counter. He ignores the strange feeling in his stomach when Charles reaches out to one of the women, trying to get them to stay, and focuses on the drink in his hand. 

Of course, if all goes downhill from there. 

Bill walks in as if on cue, and immediately starts a brawl. Javier lunges straight in, while Arthur stands bewildered for a moment, watching Charles grab a chair and throw it across the room. It probably makes things worse, but it makes him laugh as he raises his own fists. He pulls men off of Bill and slams them against the walls, feeling bruises forming on his knuckles as he breaks some fool's nose. Then some great lumbering giant of a man - Tommy, as he finds out from the bartender trying to get him to stay out of it - has Javier against a table, slamming his head down onto it. 

He rushes in, running on adrenaline, which in hindsight he realises probably wasn't the best tactic. It's not the first time he's been thrown out the window of a saloon, far from it, actually, but it's the first time he lands in a thick soup of mud, sputtering as he gets back to his feet. It's a soft landing, at least.

"Come on, pretty boy." Tommy hisses, and Arthur loses track of reason.

" _Pretty boy?_ You're kidding me. _Pretty boy?_ " Arthur's been called many things in his life, but _pretty_ certainly isn't one of them, and it's this that has him lunging at the great brute in front of him with renewed energy. 

He hears Charles' offers of help from somewhere behind him as he's being thrown into the mud again, but waves him off, this is his fight, it's a matter of _damn principle_ now. He gets his face shoved into the mud far more than he would've liked, but eventually he's on top of Tommy, battering his face to a pulp until some local do-gooder pokes his nose in and near-begs him to stop. He's a small man, the kind Arthur could break in two with a thought, but he relents, his fists are red and raw and his body aches, so he lets go of Tommy and pushes through the crowd, planning to fall onto the bench outside the store and feel sorry for himself, but is stopped short when he hears a familiar voice. 

"Making new friends again I see Arthur." Trelawny is the last person he expects to see around here, trudging through the mud with Dutch at his side, he was supposed to be in New York. But it's good to see him, he supposes, the man always did have the best leads, and his extravagance could be amusing. He rubs at his aching jaw as Trelawny speaks, perking up when he mentions Sean. The thought of heading back so close to Blackwater is worrying, borderline suicide, but Dutch is right, if there's a chance, they should get him, the little shit was worth it. He stays sat on the steps after the others disperse, Charles and Javier following Trelawny while Bill bickers with Dutch. He sighs, looking up at the sky and wincing at the pain in his shoulders. His eyes fall down and catch on the sign above the hotel. 

He considers himself for a moment, coated in mud and god knows what else, and stands, limping towards the hotel in search of a warm bath. 

***

Charles had never spent much time around Trelawny, and he's grateful for that fact after spending three days with him. It was too much for Javier too after the first day, the constant talking and performance, Charles had been tired of it once they'd left Valentine. 

So when Arthur _finally_ arrives late in the afternoon of the third day, it's a relief. He crawls up behind them, pulling out his binoculars to look down into town and they fill him in on what they know. He looks behind them, and is about to enquire about the new horse he'd brought with him when Trelawny returns, telling them that Sean was being moved up the river and they needed to get him now, lest they lose him. Arthur takes charge and he follows his directions without question or protest, sneaking up around the back of the rocky pass across the river, hiding away on a ledge and jumping into action when the gunfire starts. So close to Blackwater, it won't take long for someone to hear them and send the Law out, so they need to be fast. He picks off the men who are up with him, then does what he can for the others until theres a man lunging at him with a machete. He draws his own, dodging and clashing with him till a well timed slash has him stumbling to the floor. He hacks at his back a few times to make sure he's dead, it's more than what's necessary, he knows.

Arthur calls his name as they reach the top of the hill and he joins with them, unsurprised to see Trelawny absent. 

There's a lot of them, but there seems to be more and more law about these days, growing and multiplying like weeds. In the middle of the chaos, he watches Arthur pull out the bow he'd given him, firing it with steady hands and pure concentration, watching in slow motion as he switches seamlessly between it and his guns. He manages to shoot the rope holding Sean up and he falls to the floor with a grunt. Arthur takes out the last man, hitting him across the face and sinking an arrow info the side of his neck, before running over to Sean, getting his legs untied and taking a moment to return the shit he spews. At least he wasn't too shaken up then, if he was able to be as irritating as he usually was. He's grateful when Arthur suggests he ride back separately from Javier and Sean, knowing that a ride with Sean would make the last three days of Trelawny seem like a nice quiet trip. Javier doesn't seem to keen, but doesn't make his displeasure known.

"I can stay and help, if you want." He offers as Taima trots up beside him, Arthur just waves him off, says he'll be back later. Charles nods, climbing onto Taima and heading off back in the direction of camp, settling into a smooth canter. 

***

It's late when Arthur returns, and the party is already in full swing. Charles calls out to him through the darkness and welcomes him when he responds. He trots on into camp and finds Sean in the middle, giving a half drunken speech to them all. He watches from afar, smiling at the idiot, and takes the beer that Uncle presses into his hand. He sits by the fire for a while, swaying to Javier's music and singing along with what he knows. He's not much in the mood for drinking he finds, finishing off his beer and looking around the group of them, their faces all flushed with drink. He hears Abigail and John arguing somewhere nearby, notices Sean and Karen slip away, and does his own disappearing act back to his bed. The last few days had been long, between hunting down a giant bear with Hosea and getting Sean back, he hadn't had enough sleep. He won't be getting it now though, he knows, so he reaches into the chest at the end of his bed and pulls out the bottle of rum he'd hidden in there, away from Uncle's searching hands. A little fancy liquor would help.

He looks about camp, everyone singing or dancing merrily and sighs, it feels strange to him, to be celebrating when things are so dire. But those of them that are left are all back together, safe as can be right now, so a break is acceptable, he decides, downright necessary, to relieve some of the tension in camp and unwind, if only for one night. His eyes catch on Charles, wandering around in the darkness, and he debates with himself for a moment, before standing and crossing camp in his direction. 

Charles turns to face him, gun raised as he gets close and he raises his hands with a smile, offering Charles the rum, the other man accepting after a moment. 

"Not joinin' in?" Arthur asks moving to lean against a nearby tree. Charles shakes his head, taking a small pull of the rum before handing it back to him. 

"Someone's gotta keep guard, I'm not much of one for parties." He replies bluntly and Arthur nods, turning the rum bottle over in his hands a few times before taking another drink. 

"Mind if I join you?" He asks, not entirely sure he'd meant to say it but he sticks with it when Charles raises an eyebrow. "Don't much feel like waking up and spilling my guts tomorrow like the rest of 'em." He adds and Charles nods in agreement before reaching out for the bottle. 

"Be my guest." He says, settling down onto the floor and leaning against the tree beside him. Arthur follows him after a moment, and passes the bottle to him across the small space between them. He lets his head hit the bark of the tree and lets out a deep sigh, scratching at his neck when his hair tickles it. It's longer than it has been for a while and it was taking him some getting used to, he didn't much trust that barber in Valentine, especially not now after the fight. His shoulder twinges at the memory. 

They sit in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the party behind them, Sean shouting for more drinks and the others cheering, Bill getting himself into multiple drunken disagreements while Javier strums his guitar and the girls sing. They pass the bottle between them till it's near gone dry, and Charles passes it to Arthur, offering him the last drink. It's far from enough to get either of them drunk, but it loosens Arthur's shoulders, lets him get himself comfortable on the floor against the tree. 

"New horse?" Charles asks suddenly and Arthur nods, tearing his attention away from the patch of grass he'd been picking at. 

"Yeah, went with Hosea to track down a bear, we stopped off in Valentine on the way to sell him," Arthur pauses, smiling briefly at the thought. He'd enjoyed it, their little hunting trip. It had been nice, like old times. He'd always liked working with Hosea, whether it be on a job or just a little hunting trip. His eyes flick to where the black shire is grazing, standing out and towering over the rest of the gang's horses. "Unruly bastard tried to throw me as soon as we got into town and then some, so I decided I had to keep him." Charles laughs, and looks back to where the horse is hitched, admiring. 

"He certainly looks like a strong one. What's his name?" 

"Apollo," Arthur responds, and Charles raises an eyebrow. It was a better response than the stable owner, who'd very awkwardly told him what an interesting name it was. "Hosea tried to teach us once about all that Greek stuff people rave about. Apollo was meant to be one of those gods associated with all sorts. Said he was the patron of fugitives, I think, seemed rather fitting considering our current situation." He gestures around them with his arm and Charles nods contemplatively.

"It's a strong name for a strong horse," he compliments, and Arthur nods a thank you. "His temperament sounds perfectly suited to you, too." He says with a laugh and Arthur lightly pushes against his shoulder before laughing with him. 

"Yeah, I guess you're right, pair of grumpy bastards." Charles shakes his head with a smile and they fall back into silence again. 

His trip with Hosea comes to mind then, and he decides he should share it, it was the kind of thing he knows Charles would've loved to see; if things continue to be calm around camp, he'll take him along on one of the hunts, he decides. Much better to have him around should he come across a cougar big enough and angry enough to make it onto the map.

"Hosea gave me this map," he begins, taking it out if his satchel and passing it to Charles. "Shows where all these unique game are meant to hang around, we found a huge bear up in the Grizzlies, nasty bastard but I got him, sold the pelt to a trapper near the ridge." Charles nods, studying the paper intently before handing it back. 

"I'll have to come along with you on one of these hunts, these animals sound amazing." He takes the words right out of Arthur's mouth and all he can do it just nod.

"Sounds good to me, would be good to have you around when I've got a bear charging me, that's for sure." Charles nods, and they fall back into silence. 

Arthur doesn't notice how tired he is, looking up at the branches above his head and into the sky above their heads, hanging low and laden with bright stars. He'd looked over at Charles after a while, noticing the man beginning to nod off too. He'd meant to try and shake him awake, to get himself to bed now too since the sounds of the party were dying down. Instead, he falls asleep on the floor against the tree. 

Charles notices his eyes are closed, barely, almost unconscious himself. 

"G'night Arthur." He mumbles as his eyes slip closed and he slumps against the tree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, please do let me know if you did (or didnt! both are welcome here)
> 
> Also as a note, while I am including dialogue from the game, I'm not going to write out whole scenes unless they're significant enough, not sure that would be fun for any of us. 
> 
> Have a wonderful day/night! :)


	3. A Lesson in Bison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Bison time babeyyyy

When Arthur wakes, it's to Charles shaking his shoulder, coaxing him into consciousness. For a moment, he panics, that wondering if something is wrong, if they've been found and Charles is waking him to help, if the Pinker-

"Arthur," Charles' voice is clear in the mess of his sleep-addled brain and he opens his eyes, concern flitting across the other man's face for a moment. "You good?" He asks and Arthur nods, waving him off. Charles slumps back against his tree, but makes a noticeable grimace, Arthur watches him and tries to remember why he's on the floor with Charles. Then it finally comes back to him, excusing himself from the party, finding Charles on guard, sitting and drinking with him. His chest contorts and he curses himself.

_Get a god damn hold of yourself Morgan._

"Why did we sleep out here- _god_." Charles groans, leaning forwards and rubbing at his shoulder, he twists and something cracks, they share a look and Charles settles back against the tree gingerly. Arthur lets out a dry laugh, finding his hat on the floor beside him and seating it back on his head, turning back to look at camp, finding his own shoulders stiffer than usual.

"At least we're not waking up like them," he replies, gesturing back towards camp and Charles follows his gaze, nodding after a moment and wincing when he moves his head again. "Some back pain is gonna be the least of their problems today." Charles nods and looks down at his hands. They sit, for a while. For how long he's not sure, but he has nowhere to be, so it doesn't concern him, for once, to just be. His eyes fall closed as he relaxes against the tree, ignoring the roughness of it and focusing on the feel of the breeze on his face, trees swaying in the wind and the birdsong over their heads. He peaks one eye open when he hears Charles moving, the other man settling with his legs crossed before looking at Arthur. His expression is unreadable. Arthur watches him for a few long moments, holding his breath as Charles' eyes trail over all of him; he closes his eye when it becomes too much, when that feeling returns in his chest and his hands itch to do something.

_Do what?_ he asks himself, unable to come up with a reply. 

His stomach growls then and he opens his eyes, the moment is broken and he has to come back to the world. He's grateful, though, for these little pockets and corners he can find here and there; he prefers not to think about how often these places contain Charles too. 

"S'pose we should get some coffee ready for them." He says as Charles is climbing to his feet and stretching his aching back, shaking his stiff knees. Charles looks down at him and shrugs, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. 

"Depends on how nice you're feeling." Arthur nods and takes the offered hand, hardly having to lift himself as Charles pulls him to his feet; his strength had always impressed him. 

_Stop it_ , he tells himself

They trudge through the trees back into camp, find the fires long dead, everyone asleep and Arthur feels weary. He rubs between his eyes and looks down, Charles clapping him on the shoulder bringing him out of his head with a startle. 

"I'll get the fires going and the horses sorted." He states, heading off in the direction of the scout fire. Arthur watches him go before heading off in the direction of the firewood, deciding he may as well wake a few folks up while he works. 

***

It's a few hours before everyone is awake. Arthur had woken Javier and Swanson as he'd chopped firewood, hitting harder when they'd groaned at him to shut up. Javier had pointed an unloaded gun at him and Arthur had just stared back at him, not a hint of concern for what Javier was still capable with that gun, loaded or not. 

_'I can leave all this for you, if you want, nothing better to soothe a hangover than manual labour'_

_'Just because you're miserable, doesn't mean we all have to be'_ Javier had responded, before suddenly clutching at his stomach and rushing off to wretch into a nearby bush. Arthur had laughed at his retreating back, and Charles had rolled his eyes at the interaction from his position by the stew pot, getting food sorted since Pearson was still passed out. 

_'Not sure I'm the miserable one right now, my friend,'_ he'd added, laughing at the groan Javier gave him in reply. _'Besides, I'm not always miserable'_ Charles hadn't missed how Arthur had been looking at him when he'd said that, nor had he missed the warmth in his voice and the soft smile on his face. Their eyes had met briefly, and Arthur seemed surprised, maybe he hadn't meant to say it, not out loud. He'd ducked his head then and hidden behind Pearson's wagon fiddling with the wash basins until Charles had crossed the camp to re-light the scout fire. 

The sun had clambered higher into the sky now, nearly noon, and near everyone was awake. Sean was passed out around the back of one of the wagons, but Arthur had let it go, he'd spent the last few weeks in the hands of bounty hunters, he deserved a break. He'd spend most of his morning chopping firewood and carrying sacks across camp to Pearson's table, refilling the wash basins and slipping a bag of jewellery he'd found on an O'Driscoll into the money box. Now he was sat on his bed, toying with the brim of his hat. His eyes catch on Charles, who's sitting on a rock near the horses, sharpening his knives and fletching arrows. He watches him for a while, the gentle, calculated movements, before considering the rest of camp. 

The place was filled now with the ambient noise of a whole load of people all in one place, but it was slower than usual. Most of them clutching at their stomachs and inhaling coffee, before stumbling back to their bedrolls to grumble incoherently. He stands suddenly, surprising himself, and makes his way across camp to Charles. 

"What you preparing for?" He asks as he reaches him, Charles greeting him with a subtle nod. 

"The greatest of gifts." He'd replied, slipping his knife into his belt and pulling out his rifle. 

"An unguarded stage coach?" He'd quipped, hands resting on his belt and trying not to notice how Charles' eyes seemed to watch the action for a moment. 

"No, you simple-minded fool," there was warmth in his voice, Arthur had to dip his head to hide the smile that was pulling at his lips. "Bison." 

"Bison?" He asks, head snapping up in interest as Charles stands. 

"Bison, from which you can get anything," Arthur nods after a moment's thought. "There's some over on the plains I believe. I saw a couple a long way off earlier." 

"Good luck." He'd said with a wave, watching Charles turn to leave. He'd thought that would be the end of it, so was surprised when Charles had turned back to face him. 

"You want to come with me? I'll show you how we hunt one." He sounds neutral as always, calm and collected was Charles all over; Arthur couldn't explain the sudden jitter in his hands. 

"Sure, why not?" He'd responded quickly, trying to sound as casual as possible as he shakes his hands out, trying to get them under control. If Charles notices he doesn't say anything, mounting up and waiting for Arthur to follow suit. 

Charles talks about his mother as they ride out, of how her tribe had followed the bison. He doesn't talk about his parents much but Arthur didn't blame him, considering what he'd heard. It sounded like a whole load of sad memories, dwelling on that kind of thing was what drove men into bottles. 

"Over there," Charles had said suddenly, riding off the path and coming to a stop, Arthur slowing beside him and looking down onto the herd. "Incredible, aren't they?" Charles had looked at him then with a smile that made something in him ache, made Charles look far younger than his years. He'd looked out at the herd, and found himself stuck for words for a moment. They were huge, moved with all the confidence that their size and raw power gave them. A large bull was at the centre, grazing slowly, precisely and keeping watch, Arthur was surprised the ground didn't shake as he moved. There was an elegance to them, too, moving fluidly across the grassy plains, grazing and calling to one another. There were a few calves, dotted around, but not as many as he thought there should be. They were far smaller than their parents and cautious, they were so close to civilisation, here, to people, to danger. It occurs to him then that its the civilisation that has grown closer to them, encroaching more and more upon their land, driving them further and further until there was nowhere to go, until they could be unceremoniously picked off by greedy men with far greedier wallets. They reminded him of a different time, one he'd never seen but had often thought of. When the country was far wilder and men like him weren't burning it to the ground in search of gold. When men like Charles weren't refugees, on the run simply for the crime of being born. 

"We should only kill one of them." Charles says, bringing his attention back to the moment. He's surprised when Charles tells him to take the shot, and deliberately doesn't give Arthur a chance to protest or question, kicking Taima into a canter down towards the herd. Arthur follows behind at a trot, patting at Apollo's neck as he watches the herd spot Charles, the group moving in impressive synchronicity as they turned to escape him. Spurring Apollo into a gallop, he'd been mesmerised for a moment by Charles, reining Taima in tight and keeping the herd on the flat plains, turning them away from the roads and keeping them together. His face had been the picture of focus, of calm and control, and Arthur had been so distracted he'd forgotten entirely what he was supposed to be doing until Charles had called his name and Arthur had come back into the moment with a jolt. Shielding his eyes from the dust the herd was kicking up, he lifts his rifle and notices a straggler, moving towards it, Charles following suit and making the gap between the lone bison and the herd larger, Taima easily cutting through. 

His heart pounds in his chest as he raises his rifle, acutely aware of Charles riding towards him, watching his every move with intent. He lines the sights up with the Bison's head, taking a moment to take in a deep breath before firing, exhaling as he does. The Bison doesn't make a sound as it falls, stumbling into the ground, dead before it hits it, a clean kill. Apollo's canter becomes irregular, head raised and bouncing Arthur in the saddle. He pulls the shire to a halt, leaning forward and brushing at his neck, cooing into his flicking ears and turning to face Charles as he trots up on Taima, the little Appaloosa seemingly unfazed by her experience herding the bison. Apollo had eventually calmed down, standing still and Arthur had rolled his eyes when Charles laughed.

"Good shot," he'd said with a smile, sounding out of breath, the adrenaline, no doubt. "Skin and butcher it." He'd added, telling Arthur to take it all, that everything could be used. He'd dismounted from Apollo, rolling his eyes as the shire had trotted off, making a big show of kicking at the floor. 

"Damn moron." Arthur had grumbled, kneeling in front of the Bison, not noticing Charles looking off in a different direction, a concerned look on his face. 

Even in death, the bison was imposing, impressive. He finds himself pressing a hand to one of the tightly curled horns, before moving down to lightly brush over the thick fur, he could see why Charles' people had relied on them, the thing could feed the gang for a few days at least. He'd made quick work of the skinning, being as precise as possible and packing up the meat, taking the horns as instructed by Charles and handing them to him once he's mounted back up, pelt thrown over Apollo's back. Charles takes them without needing to look at him, and Arthur tries to see what he's looking at, angling his hat backwards so he can get a better view.

"Scavenger birds." He'd said simply, spurring Taima into a soft canter, Arthur following behind; flocks of birds like this were never a good sign. 

A pungent smell fills his nostrils as they ride down into a ditch, a flock of ravens squawking at them and taking flight, revealing three dead bison, mangled and long dead. 

"No, look, Bison. Shot and left for dead it looks like." Charles' voice was a mix of anger and sadness and Arthur could feel it too, the grisly display was a stark contrast to the warmth he'd felt only moments ago, the respect he'd had for the animal he'd felled. He'd known men who get some sick pleasure out of hurting animals, kicking street dogs and shooting at cats, whipping their horses too hard and forcing draft horses to pull till their hearts gave out, but these bison, no noble and powerful both in life and death, he understood even less why someone would want to do this, what precisely it would achieve. When their eyes meet, Charles' expression is stony, anger well masked beneath his calm exterior. Charles spots tracks leading from the bison and sets off following them, Arthur close behind him. Another dead Bison and Arthur feels his own irritation growing. Charles' voice becomes harder, Taima's pace increasing up the hill as Charles' anger grows. He dismounts quickly, moving to examine the camp, turning back to find Charles looking down at the Bison mournfully; his stomach sinks and his fingers are itching to shoot whoever had done this. 

The fire is still smoking, the hunters will still be nearby, he hopes. 

The ride further up the hill to get a better view, side by side as they reach the top, looking out at the landscape stretching out before them. Charles spots a smoke plume to the north of them and brings Taima to a canter, Arthur following behind him after a moment. 

"Bastards, just killing for fun." He'd growled. 

"You think we can talk?" He knows it's wrong as soon as he says it, he knows Charles is a far better man than him, has never blown a hole in anyone like he had just because he'd been having a bad morning or they'd looked at him funny. 

" _I don't kill for fun. I kill when I need to_." Charles had snapped and Arthur had stopped whatever response he'd been thinking of. Because it was true, Charles killed those that deserved it or tried to kill him and those he cared for. They ride in a tense silence until Charles spots more dead bison, spurring Taima into a gallop towards the camp. Arthur curses, rubbing Apollo's neck as he brings the shire to a gallop, the horse snorting before doing so, large hooves pounding against the ground.

Charles is already off his horse by the time he makes it to the camp. Shouting in the faces of the hunters who look at him like he's nothing, like he can't break them both in two with one hand. Charles speaks calm, at first, and Arthur can't figure out how this is going to go, until the hunters dig their own graves. 

"Calm down you black or red bastard, whatever the fuck you are." one of them spits, and if it were up to him, Arthur would've shot him for that, but it's not, Charles needs to have the lead on this, he knows, it's his business, his choice.

"Did you shoot them?" Charles shouts suddenly, Arthur turning his head away from the hunters to watch him step closer, body shaking with barely restrained rage. He hasn't heard the other man shout before, not like this, in anger.

"What business is it of yours-" the hunter is cut off by Charles pulling out his sawn off, blowing a gaping hole in one of their chests, the other scrambling to the floor and holding up his hands, cowering and calling him crazy.

" _It's that business of mine!_ " He shouts, towering over the hunter, powerful and imposing. Arthur funds himself breathless and has to ignore the racing in his mind and the twisting in his stomach. 

The hunter begs pathetically as Arthur approaches him, grabbing him by the throat and beating him till his nose breaks and he cries out, finally confessing. That they'd been paid to frame the local tribe, make it look like they'd been massacring the bison. He hears Charles' behind him, telling him to just kill him, and Arthur is glad that he approves of what he'd planned to do all along. He presses the man to the ground, choking the life out of him, deciding that a bullet would be much too merciful, and a waste too. He wipes his hands on his jeans as he stands, looking down at him with disgust before turning back to look at Charles. 

Charles nods to him, in thanks, and Arthur returns the gesture before stepping closer to him. 

"You wanna head back? I can take care of this, see what there is with takin'." Charles looks at him for a long moment, expression unreadable, before nodding, whistling to Taima and mounting up, pausing before he leaves to call to him.

"Thank you, Arthur." He says quietly, quickly looking down at his hands and fiddling with his reins. 

"He deserved it," he responds. "I'll see you back at camp." Charles nods and they exchange a wave before he canters away towards camp. Arthur sighs, looking at the grim sight before him, and goes about looting the hunter's bags. 

He hadn't found much, but there were watches and rings to fence, he'd find a way of giving Charles some if the money he decides as he climbs up onto Apollo's back, finding his way back down to the path and letting the shire set the pace, in no real hurry to get back to camp yet. He rides one handed, and curses out loud when his mind circles back round to Charles. The soft smile he'd given him as they'd watched the Bison, the praise he'd showered on him for the clean kill. Then, the anger in him when he'd killed the hunter, and the look on his face when Arthur had faced him having killed the other. It had been unreadable, but it had felt like Charles could see right through him into his head, could see everything in his mind and hear his heart thumping uncontrollably in his chest. Arthur had known then, what it was his hands were itching to do, what the pull in his chest was, but it had been due to the adrenaline, of course. 

_Hadn't it?_

It was becoming unbearable, this twist in his stomach whenever Charles was around, he'd go to a doctor if he didn't already know what it was, but he was doing his damnedest to ignore that. He'd talk to Hosea soon, he decides as he begins to near camp. He'd know what to do, he always had in _sensitive_ matters such as this. Always seemed to know when he needed a soft touch and a kick up the ass.

Something told him this situation would be the latter. 

Camp seems back to normal as he arrives, most of them seeming to have shaken off the worst of their hangovers and were now tending to their usual responsibilities around camp. He carries the pelt over to Pearson, producing the bundle of meat and handing it to him, telling him not to fuck it up before heading to brush the dust from Apollo's sides, loosening his saddle and removing the bit from his mouth. He pulls a carrot from his satchel, the shire making an appreciative sound as he takes it from him, Arthur smiling and rubbing at his mane. 

"You were real good today boy." He coos, Apollo snorting into his now empty palm. He sneaks him a sugar cube before heading back into camp, catching sight of Charles by the fire. He pauses for a moment, unsure if the man will want to be seeing even more of him yet but decides to check in. He'd been shaken, Arthur had seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice. Charles was his _friend_ , he wanted to make sure he was okay, and if not, he'd drag him into town and get him well and truly drunk. 

Charles is fiddling with his arrows, a small mortar and pestle balanced expertly in his lap. He looks up as Arthur approaches him, seeming pleased to see him. 

"What're you working on?" He asks, watching intently as Charles holds one of the arrows up to him, noticing the strange shape around the head. 

"Fire arrows." That piques his interest.

"Interestin'." He replies, leaving it open for Charles to continue. What he says comes as a surprise, but considering how the past few weeks have been, it really shouldn't be anymore, he decides. Charles sits back, looking him up and down and Arthur feels restless, he can feel Hosea watching them, too. 

"You get me a bottle of moonshine and I'll make you some." He offers and Arthur nods. 

"Moonshine," Charles hums affirmatively. "Whiskey do?" 

"No, has to be moonshine. Whiskey ain't strong enough." Arthur nods, the hills were crawling with 'shiners and their customers, tracking down a bottle or two wouldn't be difficult in the slightest. 

"Alright. Thank you." He says, ducking his head. 

"My pleasure." Arthur's stomach twists again and he excuses himself, retreating to his tent to draw great open fields filled with bison, a confident spotted horse watching over them with a long haired rider. He sits back, finds he's spent several hours scribbling in his journal and sighs. 

_You've really fucked up this time, Morgan._

***

Arthur had left camp early the next day, Charles watching him leave from his spot on the cliffs, the day having barely broken yet. He'd lit a cigarette, looking down at the valley below him and relishing the breeze on his face. He saw a rider, down by the river, on a tall black horse, blue duster and dark hat unmistakable even from this distance. Charles had raised his hand, Arthur slowing to a stop to return the gesture before continuing along the path. Charles had smiled to himself, finishing his cigarette before going in search of the bison horns and pelt. 

That was over a week ago, now. He'd spent the time running odd jobs where he was needed, scouting, mostly and doing the lion's share of the hunting. He'd begun stretching the bison hide into leather, and was planning to whittle the horns down. He'd give one to Jack, he thought, make him something based on one of his books, he didn't have much to play with since they'd abandoned half of their belongings in Blackwater. The other he'd give to Arthur, a thank you, and a symbol. Of what, he wasn't sure - or at least, he wasn't ready to face - but it felt right to do so. He'd watched him choke a man to death for him, he owed him. He's sat on the cliffs now, it's around noon and he's finished all the chores around camp. It wasn't a surprise how much they'd built up once Arthur had left, but Charles didn't mind. It was a distraction from his wandering mind. So he rode out with the others, listened to Swanson's ramblings and cut firewood till his arms ached. But now, in the absence of that, he begins to wonder. 

There'd been a moment, a look they'd shared when Arthur had turned to him, blood on his knuckles and jittery with adrenaline. He hadn't known what to do, Arthur had been reserved as he always was, but something had been there, he'd felt it. The hunting had been something, too. Arthur had stared at him as he'd pointed out the bison and ducked his head in a way he knew now was him hiding a smile. Then he'd caught him watching him round up the bison, seemingly in awe. It had made his chest ache and warm at the same time. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, grateful when Hosea comes up behind him, settling down to sit on the cliffside next to him, crossing his legs rather than dangling them over the edge like Charles. Charles stubs out his cigarette, a sign of respect and Hosea looks down to the river. 

"Do you know where Arthur's gone off to?" He asks, something in Charles' expression must give away his concern, as Hosea is quick to amend his question. "I've just got a prospective job lined up he'd be ideal for," he pauses, something seeming not to sit right with him, before he leans in closer and lowers his voice. "And it's been over a week now, he doesn't usually go away for this long without telling me." Charles nods, glad for a moment as he looks at Hosea that someone else in camp is concerned about Arthur. 

"He didn't tell me, I saw him heading down by the river but that was the last I saw him." Hosea nods and sighs, removing his hat go run a hand through his hair. 

"I imagine he's camped out somewhere discreet, these last few weeks have been tough on him." That's something Charles can wholeheartedly agree with, which Hosea seems to sense. He was a smart man. 

"He's been working himself too hard, so I hope you're right and he's getting a break," Hosea looks at him then, eyebrow raised, and Charles feels incredibly vulnerable all of a sudden: he's said too much. "I can head out, if you want, see if I can find anything." Hosea seems relieved. 

"That would be excellent, my boy. Just, don't tell the others, say you're running an errand for me or something. Don't want folk worrying unnecessarily." Charles nods and Hosea claps him on the back, giving him a look that silently thanks him before heading back into camp. 

Charles tells himself that it's because he hasn't left the local area in days that he's on his feet nearly immediately, slipping a Tomahawk into his belt and grabbing the bow from his tent. He crosses the camp to Taima, and is saddling her up as he hears Bill calling out to someone approaching camp. 

"It's me you dumbass." His head perks up and Arthur comes riding into camp. There's a buck draped over Apollo's back and Arthur seems to sway as they move; he looks exhausted. His coat is covered with a thin layer of dust, and there's patches of dirt across him. He watches as he leans forward, speaking to Apollo in a gentle voice and rubbing his cheek before dismounting, grabbing the buck from Apollo's back and heading to Pearson's table. Charles waits till he's halfway there before he starts to approach. Hosea meets his eye, seemingly the only other person to notice him. He nods, subtly, and Charles continues his trajectory. Arthur drops the buck down onto the butcher's table, waving off Pearson's praise and heading towards his tent, he seems to loosen as he catches sight of him, giving him a crooked smile as Charles stops by Arthur's tent, leaning against his wagon while Arthur crosses camp towards him.

One of his cheeks is bruised, and there's a bloody gash below his eye. His beard has grown out in the last week but it does little to hide the darkness of the bags under his eyes. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a flask, tossing it to Charles as he reaches him. 

"Moonshine." He says triumphantly and Charles smiles. 

"Thank you," he pauses, wondering if he should leave Arthur to rest, but he seems to be enjoying his company, so he stays. "What happened?" He asks, gesturing to the cut high on his cheek. 

"Bastard threw me, thought he'd seen a cougar. _It was a damn Turkey_ ," He huffs, and Charles can't help but laugh. "He's more fretful than a damn thoroughbred." Charles can only agree with that, having experienced first hand the unique personality the shire exhibited. 

"He's just testing you out," he says and Arthur nods, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh. "Taima was the same, damn near killed me a few times before she was satisfied," Arthur nods, brushing some dust from his arm. He looks exhausted, so he stands, moonshine in hand, stepping closer to him for a moment. "You should rest," Arthur begins to protest and Charles hushes him, Arthur seems surprised with himself when he does as he's fold. "Arthur, you're covered in dust and bruises, get some sleep you fool." Arthur had dipped his head away from him before nodding, heading into his tent as Charles wandered back towards the cliffs. 

Arthur had found him again in the evening, sat on the cliff edge, piles of arrows on the floor around him. Arthur had changed and washed his face, the gash now looking far less gaping. He had two bowls of stew in his hand. 

"This seat taken?" He'd asked, gesturing to the open spot beside him. Charles had shaken his head, gathering up the arrows and setting them to the side, gesturing to him to sit. 

"Be my guest," Arthur had handed him one of the bowls, before sitting himself down beside him, legs hung over the edge of the cliff, looking out down towards the river and blowing on his spoon of stew. "Thank you." He'd added and Arthur had just nodded. They ate in silence, watching the sunset, ignoring the sounds of Bill arguing with Ms Grimshaw from behind them. Setting his bowl aside, he'd gathered up the fire arrows he'd made, handing them to Arthur in a tight bunch. 

"I'll have some more for you soon, just need to wait for the rest to dry." He'd explained and Arthur had studied the arrows for a moment before thanking him, placing them at his side. The silence had stretched out between them again, before Arthur had broken it. 

"I was in Big Valley, met a photographer, first gettin' robbed by coyotes, then nearly gettin' himself eaten by wolves," he'd said with a chuckle, shaking his head, Charles had smiled at the story and stayed silent, eager to know where Arthur had been on his travels, his expression changes then as he looks to Charles, he looks unsure, deliberative. "Came across some O'Driscolls holdin' up a coach down by Bard's Crossing, killed them and spared the driver, bunch of bastards." Arthur seems to cut himself off, going somewhere inside his head. Charles considers him, and takes another gamble. 

"What's wrong?" He asks, and Arthur doesn't meet his eyes, face hidden by his hat. So he looks down at the view, waiting, trying not to push too hard, too far. 

"On the way back I swung through Valentine, picked up some stuff from the store, some poor bastard was gettin' his ass handed to him by some O'Driscolls, owed them money," Charles nods along with him, and is patient when Arthur pauses again. "I stopped them. We do the same, I mean, loanin', but I helped him, didn't even kill the O'Driscolls. Did it to help him, _not hurt them_." It's sad, Charles thinks, that this kind of thing worries him. Arthur had always tried to help decent people when there was the option to, but he'd always described himself as a bad man, not the type to throw himself into a fight, outnumbered and outgunned, just to save some stranger who he'd gain nothing from. Charles had noticed it in the last few weeks, the change in him. He'd seen it that day when they hunted, any of the others wouldn't have cared about the hunters or the bison or why Charles cared so much. Arthur had killed a man with his bare hands because he thought it was the _right thing to do_. Arthur's looking at him now, worry barely masked behind his eyes and Charles is quick to reassure him. 

"You helped a decent man who was being exploited, nothin' wrong with that as far as I can see," Arthur nods, but something is still off with him. "Change can happen to all of us, Arthur, it's never too late," He's acutely aware then of how closely Arthur is watching him, seeming to hang on his every word. He has to be careful. "Putting some good back into the world, it's good for the mind, don't treat it as a bad thing. Change is good." Arthur had stared down at his feet for a long moment before meeting his eyes, offering a shy smile. He had opened his mouth to speak when Dutch had called him over and Lenny was rushing back to camp, Charles had waved him off and watched from afar as he'd left to go to town with Lenny. 

***

Arthur knows already when he wakes up that he'd made a fool of himself yet again. Lenny's voice is like thunder in his ears, and he hushes him as he rolls over and sits up, rubbing at his drooping eyes. 

" _Oh I wanna die_." He groans, flinching against the light filtering into the cell. He's grateful that the sheriff doesn't see fit to torment them for too long, Lenny paying him the money and the pair of them staggering out into the street. He gets de ja vu when Lenny throws up, only this time he doesn't laugh, clutching his own stomach instead which is threatening to spill. There's a bruise throbbing on his cheek.

_You'll never take me alive!_

He groans at the memory of running into the doctor's wall, he had made a real fool out of himself this time. He settles down onto the floor, feeling sorry for himself, as Lenny rides off back to camp. He'll head back soon too, but he needs to get the world to stop spinning first, knowing that Apollo will give him a hard time otherwise. As much as he felt like death, he didn't regret it, not really. Lenny was a good kid and he'd had fun with him, it was okay sometimes, he felt, to let himself loose a bit. Nobody had gotten killed so he counted that as a victory, despite the fact that he'd woken up in a jail cell. His mind wanders to Charles, rather inevitably and he sighs. He remembers their conversation last night before Lenny had arrived. How he'd smiled at him, the comfortable silence between them as they'd eaten, the soft look on his face when Arthur had confided in him. He still didn't know why he had done that, but Charles seemed to have that way with him, always had him tripping over himself to spill his secrets and worries. He was trustworthy, though, undeniably a good man. 

_A far better man than you_ , something in the back of his mind hissed. It sounded like his father. 

He stands, breathing against the pain in his head and making his way down to the saloon, relieved to find Apollo stood there vigilantly, he noses Arthur gently as he approaches, and he holds the shire's head in his hands, surprised at the sudden turn of affection. 

"I'll make it up to you boy, I promise," he coos, rubbing at his nose and fishing a peppermint out of his satchel. "Let's go home." He says as he climbs up into the saddle, setting off through the mud back to camp. 

Apollo is easy on him, settling into a smooth trot and deciding not to test his grip on the reins for once. 

It doesn't take long to reach camp, and he's relieved to find that he's mostly ignored as he passes through, settling himself down at one of the tables by Hosea, who already has a mug waiting for him. It's foul smelling, and even worse tasting, he knows, and he scrunches up his nose as Hosea pushes it towards him with a raised eyebrow. 

"Quiet night?" He asks.

"Fuck off." Hosea barks a laugh and Arthur hides a smile behind his hand as he scratches at his beard, he needs a shave. 

"You know that will make you feel better," Arthur groans and covers his face with his hands, before relenting and taking the mug in hand. Hosea was right, the ginseng infused mixture seemed to be the only thing that would settle his stomach after a night on the drink. "What happened?" he asks, gesturing to the bruise forming on his cheek. His whole face was battered now, between the gash he'd received being thrown by Apollo and running into a wall at full speed. He takes a large swallow of the tea and grimaces. 

"Law was chasin' me, ran into the damn wall." He says, grumbling to himself as Hosea laughs again. He finishes off the tea, slamming the mug down onto the table and repressing a gag. He dips his head when Charles appears out of his peripheral vision and Hosea waves him over, he doesn't want him to see him like this, not that he knows why. Nor does he care to probe that subject too much. 

"Charles, my boy, come and join us, Arthur is such a ray of _sunshine_ today." Charles' eyes flick to him and he smirks, Arthur looks down, suddenly finding his boots fascinating. 

"Drinking is a young man's game Arthur, you ought to be more careful." He'd teased, settling himself down opposite Arthur, smirking at the glare Arthur levels him with. 

"You be careful Charles, drinkin' may be for young men but shootin' ain't." It's not a real threat and Charles just laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. He supposes he would laugh if it were a real one, too. Charles was ever so slightly taller and considerably broader, he'd felt the strength of the man first hand and knew he never wanted to be on the wrong end of it. He's glad that his cheeks are bruised black and blue, because he can feel a flush rising up his chest- _what is wrong with him, like a damn teenager_. 

"Just sayin', maybe stop taking hits to the face for a while, otherwise you'll end up looking like Bill." Charles replies and Hosea laughs heartily; he likes seeing the old man laugh. 

"Naw, I'll stop just for you so you don't miss my pretty face." He regrets it as soon as he says it, but Charles is smiling. He doesn't meet Hosea's eyes when he starts to look between the two of them curiously. 

"Much appreciated." The reply puts him at ease, and the three of them settle into a comfortable silence until Hosea turns to him. 

"Dutch hasn't stopped talking about Micah since you left," He says in a low voice. Charles takes it as his moment to excuse himself, going to tend to Taima at the hitching posts. Arthur makes the conscious effort not to watch him go. "I don't know what he sees in him, I really don't." They'd been arguing more often and it worried him. Hosea used to be the strong second at Dutch's side, and in the last six months they'd steadily grown apart, Hosea's opinions ignored and rejected until Arthur had been forced to pipe up, but even that hadn't done much good, and Dutch had given him a lecture about faith he hadn't understood. 

"If it were my choice we'd leave him there," He replies, not missing the sincerity in Hosea's eyes as he nods in response. "And God knows what Dutch sees in him, everywhere he goes theres unnecessary death, good folk, too," He pauses, looking at Hosea and considering. He'd always been his closest confidant, but with matters relating to Dutch it had been difficult, the ties of loyalty so overlapped and intertwined as they were. "Dutch has been off since he joined, he don't listen to us no more." Hosea sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. 

"I know, son, _I know_. Hopefully this scares the little shit into behaving himself," silence settles between them again, and he can feel Hosea staring at him wryly so he finally meets his gaze and prepares himself. "You've been spending a lot of time with Charles lately, I noticed." He states simply, openly, waiting for Arthur to either ignore him or take the bait. He sits back, deliberating, and bites. 

"He's good in a fight, only one of these fools that thinks before they pull the trigger." Hosea nods, and Arthur narrows his eyes at him. 

"He's a good influence on you, and its nice to see you not being a sour old bastard with someone," Arthur huffs and Hosea gently nudges him with his elbow. "It's not a bad thing, y'know. Some warmth now and then, _a friend_ , Arthur." Arthur nods, he knows that's not all Hosea thinks, knows there's a whole multitude of other carefully thought out statements in his head, but he's glad that the other man doesn't push it, because Arthur doesn't know nor understand what it is he's feeling, what's got him so worked up, so much of a fool. Hosea is right, too. Charles was a good influence, he did good things without having to think about being good, and Arthur found that as something he respected, something he aimed towards. Maybe that was why he'd told Charles about the debtor and the photographer, men he'd helped out of some form of kindness, without an ulterior motive. Hosea claps him on the shoulder and stands, heading to the cliffs to settle down and read his newspaper. He can feel Dutch staring at him across the camp, and stands, heading to Apollo, rubbing his nose before climbing up into the saddle, preparing himself for the ride to Strawberry. 

"I can come with you if you want." Charles offers from beside him, now stood on the other side of the hitching posts. He considers it for a moment, but waves him off. 

"Nah you stay here, hold the fort, it'll be easier just me, and besides, only one of us should have to put up with him." Charles doesn't laugh at his weak joke, nor does Arthur. 

"Good luck." He says as Arthur turns to leave, trotting out onto the road before spurring Apollo into a gallop, the shire full of energy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed this!  
> Have a wonderful day/night :)


	4. Always a Damn Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This, then, was Arthur Morgan. Stood tall and confident, unwavering at the sight of a train speeding towards him, unbothered by the thin layer of metal beneath his feet separating him from an explosive fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the timeline of this seems strange, but there are things that have happened that haven't been mentioned yet, but will be either in this or later on. I had to stop myself adding an entire extra few thousand words to this chapter cause it was getting wayy too long. 
> 
> Also, this stuff is all unbeatd, so let me know if you see any mistakes, I've been fixing some things gradually myself, but yeah.
> 
> Anyways, time for a train robbery.

The Van Der Linde Morning Chorus had been something Charles had not expected when he'd first joined up with one of the most notorious gangs left in the country. A lot of things though, he supposed, were unexpected. Like Swanson and Uncle who seemed to cause more trouble than they were worth but the gang protected nevertheless, like the women, stronger than them half the time and smarter nearly all of it. Arthur had been unexpected, too. He'd heard tell of him, how could he not, Dutch's muscle, his workhorse, someone you did not want to mess around with; Charles had expected him to be taller. Truth was there were multiple sides to him, there was the side that everybody knew of, terrifying and violent, there was the sour side of him that Uncle could bring out into the open with impressive skill and then there was this softer, easygoing side of him. The side that brought back gifts for Jack, who went off in search of novels for Hosea, who made a fool of himself in front of the women just so they'd crack a smile, who'd find those within the gang in need of cheering up and would ensure it be done. 

This was the side of Arthur was witnessing now, rubbing soothing circles into Apollo's back, the shire's eyes closed and leaning into his touch. 

Swanson starts the Chorus that morning, sitting bolt up right suddenly from where he's passed out by Pearson's wagon, shouting something about a woman named Margaret before lying back down. It's enough to elicit a frustrated groan from Javier, swearing in Spanish and rubbing his face against his bedroll. Grimshaw is next, getting up to hush him and then going about waking the women, which gets the morning ambience of camp well into swing. It's still quiet, will be until Sean wakes up, no doubt, but considering his current position passed out in the hay bales, it'll be a while 'till that happens. He flicks the remainder of his cigarette into the gently crackling fire, lining it with more sticks before heading towards the hitching posts to find Taima, stopping short when he sees Arthur laughing, hand on his chest. Taima's head is on Apollo's back, the shire seeming not to mind in the slightest, trying to get a hold of Arthur's satchel. Taima snorts at him, clearly seeking some of the attention Arthur had been giving Apollo, leaning further over the shire till Arthur pushes her back slightly, laughing as the Appaloosa remains stubbornly in place. The sight pulls a smile from him, trudging across camp to tend to her. Arthur turns to greet him as he arrives, a smile on his face.

"You got an awfully confident horse here, Charles," he says with a chuckle, the Appaloosa finally removing her head and walking around the back of Arthur to press her head against Charles' chest, no doubt trying to butter him up in the pursuit of sugar cubes. "Found the pair of them all tucked in together this mornin'," he says, shaking his head and returning his attention to Apollo. Charles guides Taima to the post beside him, feeding her an apple and running his fingers through her mane. "Damn fools been nipping at the others all mornin' for getting too close, 'specially The Count." He can't help but laugh at the thought of that, the towering shire nipping at The Count, no doubt terrifying the fragile Arabian. They laugh together, patting down their respective horses, and its nice, _really nice_. There's birdsong in his ears and the rising song is warming his cheeks, he can hear camp moving around him but for just a moment, all there is to him is Arthur's smile and a soft breeze. After a while, Arthur seems to finish up, pausing for a moment before appearing beside Charles, leaning on the other side of the hitching post he has Taima against and turning to look at him. He goes to speak but stops himself, so Charles gives him a moment before slowing his brushing, debating himself. 

"You're up early," he states simply, Arthur humming contemplatively in response. Not bad, then, but there was something wrong, with the way he was holding himself, how his shoulders tensed and his eyes wouldn't quite meet his. So he takes a gamble - as everything with Arthur seems to be, these days - slipping the brush away and turning to him fully, showing he has his complete attention. "Everything okay, Arthur?" He deliberately keeps his voice low, soft. Prying information out of Arthur can be like bleeding a stone, he'd noticed, and learnt how to by now, watching Hosea approach him with light words and soft encouragement, making him lead the conversation. Arthur sighs, shoulders sagging; his luck holds true. 

"Yesterday, it was bad. I hate him at the best of times but well- _Jesus_ ," he'd been able to tell it had been bad by the way Arthur had arrived late that night, face stormy and smelling of gunpowder, walking straight to his tent where he'd stayed the rest of the night, only coming out to gruffly inform Dutch of Micah's location and grab a bottle of whiskey. "Law up there is real sleepy, town like that don't exactly get much action. Had me help him shoot up the whole place just so he could get back his damn guns, took a personal call too, shot some poor bastard and seemed to get off on killing his woman too," he practically spits the words, rubbing his face. "We coulda gotten out of there with only a couple dead, but he insisted on having to kill half the damn town, decent folks most of them." Charles feels the familiar twitch of anger in his brow and steels himself, running a hand along Taima's flank. Micah made him angry at the best of times, but the thought of Arthur, who had been trying to be good, lately, trying not to get innocent people hurt, having to not only save the idiot from trouble he'd brought down on himself, but also slaughter half a town? That outright enraged him. Getting Sean back had been the right thing to do, but Micah? If it had been his choice he would've let him swing. 

"I don't know what Dutch sees in him, everywhere he goes is chaos and death, unnecessarily." He's blunter than he intends to be, but Arthur doesn't react, not at first, which he takes as a good sign. Had he been offended by the lack of faith or his doubting of Dutch, he'd have made that well known by now. Instead, Arthur just meets his eyes; he looks sad. 

"Me neither," He sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. " _Me neither_." Arthur looks down at his hands, in deep thought, so Charles turns back to Taima, feeding her and brushing away the last of the dust she'd accumulated overnight, something pulling in his chest when he feels Arthur watching him, seeming to just be enjoying the company. Eventually he stands, offering a soft goodbye and heading off back into camp, Charles going about the task of getting Taima's saddle fastened, planning to head out on the hunt later that afternoon, find the deer down by the lake. The O'Driscoll boy screaming has them both jumping, Taima quickly calming under his hands as he peers around her head and finds Bill lunging at the poor boy with his gelding tongs. The boy relents, finally telling them what it was they wanted to hear, Bill backing off and Arthur immediately barking orders at him and John, leering at and towering over the O'Driscoll. This was that other side of Arthur Morgan, the one he'd heard about in saloons at the wrong end of town, the one that shoots without blinking and kills with his bare hands. Arthur looks at him as he turns to leave, and Charles cannot read the expression he finds there, pondering it as the group of them turn down the path and disappear out into the heartlands. 

***

Arthur is confused. 

Not in the way that he'd felt when Hosea had read to him about classical history and philosophy, nor when Dutch's mood would swing and he'd give Arthur an angry lecture that made no sense and made him angry right back at him. No, Arthur is confused because of Kieran _goddamn_ Duffy, who had saved his life without thought, without whom Arthur would be yet another outlaw with a gaping hole in his chest. It had worked better for him, to have saved his life. Because with that, Kieran could make his case stronger to them, show that he could be trusted and it gave him an in, Arthur owed him, now and that wrangled him; owing his life to a goddamn O'Driscoll, still more a boy than a man. And while Colm hadn't been there - because of course he hadn't, nothing ever went smooth or simple for them, nobody was ever were they were meant to be or doing what they were supposed to be doing - they'd killed a good load of them, made a nice dent in his numbers, and made some money. He had a shotgun, too, which was a definite plus. Still, Kieran would be joining up with them now, far safer with them than out on his own. 

He's sat high on the cliffs now in Cumberland Forest, having taken to riding the winding paths rather than returning to camp quite yet. It was still early, and he liked the country, it was certainly a sight to see, chalky dust paths winding up the great jutting cliffs and hills, the Heartlands themselves practically growing green with grass and filled with life, bushes of berries and wild herbs abundant and herds of deer grazing tentatively in the late morning sun. Apollo is grazing somewhere behind him, occasionally raising his head, alert and on guard as Arthur fiddles with the violet flowers in his hands. There were patches of them dotted around up on the cliffs, nowhere near as vibrant as the fields in Big Valley, but far more delicate, tiny petals intricately folded around one another. He looks out on the landscape below him, a group of Pronghorn making their way across the fields, pausing to graze on the more vibrant patches of grass, steadily making their way towards Twin Stacks pass. The pass was impressive, too, jutting out rather suddenly from the landscape, looming over the grasslands and breaking up the landscape, he'd set up camp there soon, he decides as he dangles his feet over the edge of the cliff, it would be a pain to get up there but the isolation was attractive, hidden away atop one of the towering cliffs. His eyes fall upon the refinery off in the distance and he narrows his eyes, watching it in all its modern ugliness for a moment before looking down to the rocks beneath his feet. It was a blemish on the land, a sign of the greed of men, of the civilisation that was pushing further and further towards him from places like Saint Denis, setting up these little outposts out in the savage lands he called home, corrupting them with their greed and smoke. He couldn't wait to leave the place, find somewhere real quiet, where even the trains haven't reached yet, and hide away from the modern horrors to come.

He stands at last, walking to Apollo and stroking him for a moment before climbing up into the saddle and making his way back down the way he'd came. He comes across a sun-bleached tree, largely devoid of leaves but with dreamcatchers hanging from it's branches instead, studying them until the sound of a wagon coming up the path has him moving along, their intricate designs sticking out in his mind. He pauses when he reaches the train tracks, deciding at the last moment to turn right in the direction of town. The morning's gunfight has only enhanced the aching in his bones, so he rides in the direction of the hotel, hitching Apollo outside and ordering himself a bath, eager to envelop himself in the warm water. He considers renting a room, for a moment, but ultimately decides against it, saving the money for when the charms of camp living become well and truly thin. 

He undresses quickly, sinking down into the soap laden bath with a satisfied sigh, eyes sliding closed as he lets the water massage the aching in his back and clean the dust from his skin. He's sitting up to wash him hair when a young woman opens the door, near giving him a heart attack. He waves her off, and she seems almost relieved as she looks at him and he realises how young she is. It was hardly unusual, women like her to end up in places like these, but she was too young for this kind of business, for the kinds of men that would say yes to assistance, to the kinds of men that would pay extra for a girl like her. 

"Wait," he says, leaning out of the bath to grab at his satchel, the girl flashing him a worried look. He grabs a wad of cash, around 15 dollars, and holds it out to her, she stays firmly put by the door. "Take it, please. Get yourself somewhere better than this." He says softly and she nods, not meeting his eyes as she takes the money, quickly turning to leave and pausing in the doorway as she does. 

"Thank you, Mister." She says, not turning to look at him, before leaving and closing the door behind him. 

He washes his hair and leans back in the tub, eyes falling closed. He lays there until the water grows tepid and his fingers begin to prune, hauling himself out with a sigh and standing in front of the mirror, looking himself over. The bruises on his face had mostly faded now, the cut on his brow beginning to close. There was purple blooming on his chest, his ribs, but it would fade, nothing was broken, it was an occupational hazard. His hair was longer now, nearly reaching his shoulders, feeling a fool when he curls a strand of it round his finger. He considers cutting it, but he likes it, so it stays, he does trim his beard however, keeping it at a moderate stubble. As he's pulling on his jeans he catches sight of himself in the mirror again. He'd noticed the weight loss, between their mad dash up and then back down the mountains, and sneaking around in New Hanover, a decent meal had been hard to come by, especially when he spent most of his nights outside of camp. He felt no less strong, though, he was just a little leaner round the middle now; he makes the conscious decision as he's changing to swap out his duster for his montana coat, the fur insides not only warming him against the chill air, but also hiding any signs of his shrinking waist, he didn't want Hosea worrying about him right now as he always did when his weight changed in the past. The man had enough of his own ailments to worry about without Arthur adding his own. 

Once outside, he packs his unclean clothes back into his saddle bag and crosses the muddy street, ducking into the general store and picking out a bottle of rum, pausing by the middle counter to grab Jack some candies. The kid needed a break, especially with how John had been lately, even more clueless about being a father than he was about everything else. 

The sound of gunfire has his head snapping up as he's setting off down the path towards camp. He pauses, identifying it's source and his stomach drops. It's close, to his right, no doubt at the house he'd seen being built, who he'd spoken with and watched each time he'd passed by. _Good people, honest folks._ It wasn't his business, he wasn't some saviour, wasn't the _fairy godmother_ Uncle had taken to calling him. Yet, he makes his choice, pulling his shotgun from the saddle and spurring Apollo into a gallop, racing across the path and jumping from his back as he reaches the house, sliding into cover behind some boxes. It's no surprise to find O'Driscolls firing at him, and no surprise when they recognise him, focusing their efforts now upon him, not getting the chance to act however as kills each of them swiftly and cleanly, pausing and listening for more. When satisfied that there are no more coming, he stands and approaches the father, who's still clutching at his revolver, chest heaving; all three of them would be dead now if it wasn't for him, he knows. 

"You boys alright?" He asks, slinging his shotgun back over his shoulder, the father finally holstering his own and approaching him. 

"Thank you so much, Mister. Damn bastards have been pestering us for weeks about protection money or something." He explains and Arthur nods, whistling to Apollo. It was a scheme he knew all too well out of the O'Driscolls, one that'd always left a bad taste in his mouth, like Strauss's usury. 

"Well, I don't think they'll be hasslin' you anymore," He replies gruffly, mounting up and pausing before he leaves. "Try to stay out of trouble now." 

"I'll certainly try." The father replies with a shrug, good enough. He tips his hat and settles into a smooth trot down the path towards camp. 

He opens his satchel as he rides, and pulls out a bundle of sparrow and pheasant feathers, running his fingers over them contemplatively, one hand loosely holding the reins. He'd had them made by the Trapper, a spur of the moment kind of thing, but hadn't seen fit to wear them yet. But now, riding along the path, feeling fresh and clean and glad to have committed a good deed for the day, he decides to clip it onto the rope strands that tie around his hat, replacing it on his head and spurring Apollo into a canter down the path towards camp. Lenny greets him with a mouthful of a stew as he passes through, dismounting and praising Apollo as he hitches him before making his way into camp. The women call him over as he arrives - as they so often do, he's beginning to understand why Hosea says he's their favourite - Tilly complimenting his new look and Mary-Beth joining her with a giggle. 

"Why thank you ladies." He says with a smile, before looking around him and bowing theatrically to them, feeling his chest warm as they erupt into laughter. It always worked, his mock bowing and chivalry, always got them smiling and laughing, and he had always counted that as an achievement, especially in times like these. 

He reaches his tent and settles down on his bed with a contented sigh, eyes catching on the arrows neatly arranged on the table beside his bed. He takes one in hand, running his fingers gently up it's length before putting it back, a quiet part of him rather liking the look of them beside his belongings. He's about to go and track the man down when Dutch appears at the entrance to his tent, an odd expression on his face. 

"Alright there, Dutch?" He prompts when the man just stares at him, motionless. Dutch's eyes fall on the collection of arrows on his table, and another unclear expression flits across his features, before he schools his face into a signature Dutch smile. 

"Arthur, I need you to speak to Mr. Strauss," Arthur sighs, and Dutch raises his hands in an attempt to appear as the middleman that they both very much know he is not. "I know you don't like it, son, but it needs to be done." 

"Yeah, for some reason Dutch I don't much enjoy beating the poor and destitute to hell because Strauss scammed them. Why can't someone else do it? Micah would love it I'm sure." He replies and Dutch just shakes his head. 

"No, I need it to be you, son, you're my best." Once, Arthur would've rolled over for the flattery, but now he doesn't, but he does just nod, if only to get Dutch to leave. He won't go and see Strauss, not yet, the train job with John was far more pressing at that moment, so he stands from his bed, crossing the camp to Apollo and leaving in search of an oil wagon. 

***

The sound of gunfire has Charles on edge as he and John ride to where the oil wagon is hidden, but relief washes over him when he finds it's just Arthur and Sean bickering with one another; as he climbs aboard he wishes they were still shooting their guns, Sean yapping incessantly in his ears. It'd been a few days since he'd seen Arthur last, he'd returned to camp briefly after stealing the wagon to let John know, before disappearing again with a stormy look on his face, a letter in his hands and riding off towards Valentine. He spends the wagon ride listening to Arthur's instructions, feeling the adrenaline running through him already, as was customary for a job like this. These jobs were more risky than they appeared, while the chances of guards onboard were low - according to John - there was additional pressure due to who they were stealing with. Rich socialites, yes, but they didn't deserve to die, they weren't like the big company men they stole from, so they needed to be threatening but not deadly. 

Untying the horses, he exchanges a nod with Arthur as he takes his place in the trees with John, splitting his attention between Arthur as he climbs up on top of the wagon and the gradually increasing noise of the train. Sean jogs over into position, and they wait, bulling their bandanas up over their faces as the blinding light of the train comes around the corner. His eyes fall to Arthur now, and is chest tightens uncontrollably. Repeater hanging loosely, casually from one hand, he stares down the train without flinching, the lights illuminating his strong figure, his duster coat waving lightly in the wind; Charles has to force himself not to focus too much on the top few buttons of his shirt being undone. He watches as Arthur raises his gun, not aiming, flicking the lever in a slow, smooth motion that he follows intently. This, then, was Arthur Morgan. Stood tall and confident, unwavering at the sight of a train speeding towards him, unbothered by the thin layer of metal beneath his feet separating him from an explosive fate, staring death in the eye and halting it in its' tracks. The train comes to a halt with a screech and Charles comes back to himself, not returning the questioning look John levels him with, darting out of the tree-line as the whistle blows and the engineer jumps out to confront Arthur. 

"What's going on here? What's going on?" The engineer shouts, not hearing Charles sneak up behind him, falling instantly to the ground as he strikes him across the back of the head. Arthur is staring at him now, with a look he can't read, and he's grateful his own face is covered by his bandana as he breaks his stare and sorts through the engineer's pockets. He nods to Arthur when he tells him to stay up front, climbing onto the train once he's done, checking that there's no surprises. He's walking down through the carriages when all hell starts to break loose. He crouches down on one of the cargo carriages beside John, Arthur shouting to two lawmen, telling them to leave, then, there's more of them coming out of the trees. 

"There goes me and my big mouth." Arthur mutters. Their eyes meet again and Arthur gives him a subtle nod; he raises his rifle. 

Arthur takes the first shot, and from there its chaos and gunfire, breaking a hole in the line of law and jumping from the train, finding their horses and mounting up, covering one another as they do so. 

"Follow me!" Arthur shouts, before spurring Apollo into a rapid gallop down the path, the rest of them following close behind him. The further they go into Lemoyne, the more distant the shouts of the law become, and Arthur takes them off the road, speeding through packed groups of trees and thick underbrush till they burst out onto a quiet path, skidding to a halt by a fence, beyond which he can just about make out the shape of a huge manor. Arthur splits the money between them, pulling his bandana down and giving him a small smile, it takes him off guard very suddenly. 

They split up after that, Charles riding back off into the trees, trying to wipe the image of Arthur stood atop the wagon from his head. 

He fails. 

" _Arthur fucking Morgan._ " He curses under his breath as he rides off into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Do let me know if you did :)
> 
> Have a wonderful day/night.


	5. In a tent somewhere in New Hanover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't much see why people are so obsessed with civilisation when there's things like this." Arthur says softly, eyes cast skyward, illuminated in the orange glow.
> 
> "Me neither." Charles replies; he's not looking at the sky. Arthur turns to look at him, then, and he doesn't have the chance to look elsewhere because Arthur is smiling at him, all crooked teeth and warm eyes, the sun forming a halo behind his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence ahead me laddies. 
> 
> This chapter is inspired what I do after every mission in-game; fuck off for days on end picking flowers. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

It takes Charles a few days to return to camp, more than it should have. Delayed returns after jobs are expected, encouraged, even, gives them more time to outrun the heat, to burn off the adrenaline before returning to camp with full pockets and riches to share. But Charles needs time, to think, to decide. He makes his way back into New Hanover, wary of the eyes watching him at all times when he'd ridden into town, of the stories he'd heard of hooded men in the night. He rides through Emerald ranch, selling off the valuables he'd collected before following the trail further North, up into the Grizzlies, riding for hours before he'd settled for a campsite nestled away amongst the Three Sisters, overlooking O'Creaghs run. He spends three days there, hunting deer and sitting on the rocks by the water, watching the fish flit about beneath it's clear surface. The air is crisp there, clean; it always feels like morning. He can think, here, away from Swanson's singing and Dutch's speeches, away from the noise and clatter of camp, hidden away up in the hills, his thoughts are clearer. 

On the second day, he settles himself down amongst a patch of orange wildflowers on a grassy ledge overlooking the Heartlands, a cup of coffee in hand. Taima settles beside him on the floor, saddle discarded by his tent, head resting on his thigh. He watches her, the twitch in her face as she drifts to sleep, brushing the hair from her face and smiling when she whinnies softly; he wonders what she dreams of. 

His mind, inevitably, falls back to Arthur. The image of him was still ingrained in his mind, stopping that train, a lonesome, powerful figure. Charles' dreams consisted of blue eyes and crooked smiles and he knew he was doomed. It had started even as far back as Colter, if he addresses himself honestly, the pride he'd felt swelling in his chest when Arthur had used the bow so well, watching him work himself to the bone and being entirely unable to lighten the load, the twist in his stomach when Arthur had been so eager to tell him he wanted him to stay. 

_We need you now, more than ever_. Arthur had been so sincere, eyes so tired and smile so warm that Charles hadn't known how to respond. 

Charles hadn't meant to kill that hunter, not really. It took a lot for things to get under his skin, to make him loose the control he'd worked so hard to acquire over the years. His father's emotions had controlled him, pulled him down the bottle; Charles had known from an early age that he couldn't let that happen to him. The indifference in them, though, that had enraged him. It was more than that, though. More than the disrespect to the animals that meant to much to him, more than the sight of wasted resources. He and Arthur had, for a few, isolated moments, shared something good, kind, meaningful. Arthur had listened with interest when he'd spoken about his mother, followed his instructions carefully and respectfully when hunting and butchering the Bison. Arthur, who he'd seen gun down entire towns, had made him laugh and listened to his stories, had looked at him so warmly when they'd spotted the Bison. 

But then he'd seen the ravens, and carcass after carcass and then the hunters, crouched in the dirt and defiant, destroying that moment and settling anger deep in the pit of his stomach. It had been a while since he'd lost control and he'd worried, for a moment, that Arthur would judge him for it, would question him. But Arthur had choked a man to death for him, then turned to him to make sure _he was okay_. He rubs a hand over his face, keeping it there for a moment to block out the world, his situation was delicate, difficult. He'd usually been able to predict these kinds of things and make sure he was gone before they could get to even this point. But now he was trapped, the ties that bind stronger than ever and unable to extricate himself. 

Arthur had been unexpected, no one had warned him that the muscle of the Van Der Linde gang had a heart, that he wrote in a journal and sat down to talk to the women, that he sings while he rides and spends so much of his time tending to his horse; there had been nothing to warn him that he'd end up in the hole he found himself in now. He sees goodness in Arthur that not many see, a potential, a strength. Hosea sees it, he knows, he'd seen it in his face, in how he talked to him. He spends the rest of the day sat there on that hill, until Taima had woken and stood on tired legs. He'd wandered down to the water with her, washing his face in the cold water and sat back with a deep sigh, he wouldn't let this be his undoing wouldn't let himself get stuck. That evening, looking up at the sky, he'd known. His loyalty to Arthur would transcend whatever their relationship was. He was a good man, but he couldn't see it, could not believe that of himself. If all he could do was make him see that, and stand by his side through the coming months, then that would be enough, it would have to be. 

When he closes his eyes that night Arthur's laugh is in his ears, smiling and carefree, shoulders unburdened by the trials of their lives.

He returns to camp the next afternoon and Hosea is there to welcome him, something else he hadn't expected. He helps him unload the ducks and deer from Taima, singing his praises as he always did before inviting him to sit with him by the cliff-edge. There was something on his mind, that was clear from how he'd been waiting at the hitching posts for him, fiddling with his newspaper but not reading it. They settle, looking down on the river, and Charles lights a cigarette, waiting for Hosea to find the words he was so desperately searching for. 

"I heard the job went well," He says finally, nodding when Charles hums in agreement around his cigarette. "You been hunting, the last few days?" Hosea is a smart man, Charles had known that since they'd first met, and he's reminded of it each time he's in his presence. His words are selected carefully, he gives Charles a way out, a way not to explain his prolonged absence, not accusing him of anything but still probing for more details. 

"Ended up out near O'Creagh's run, thought I'd lie low for a few days, it's nice country." Hosea nods, seemingly satisfied. 

"I thought Arthur was with you," His tone is strange and Charles can't help but turn to face him now, the older man shrugging. "I know he'd planned to take you along to find some of that game on that map I gave him, was telling me about a trip he'd been considering up to Big Valley before John started with all the train business." It takes him off guard and he knows Hosea can see it in his face, but there was no need to hide things from him. Hosea was fair, _kind_ , even, he scammed those that deserved it, those that scammed people who didn't know better and couldn't say no. 

"No, he split up after the job, there was a lot of Law about," He turns to look around camp then. "He's not back yet." He says, looking at the space at the hitching posts where Apollo would normally be.

"No, not yet," Hosea is looking at his hands when Charles turns back at him, and he seems wrapped up in his head for a long moment before staring out at the horizon in front of them, taking in the view. "I've seen the way you look at him, you know?" Charles freezes and theres a sinking feeling in his stomach, unable to respond or even begin to think of a- "I've also seen the way _he looks at you_ ," Hosea's hand is on his shoulder, warm and reassuring, he can breathe again but he stares determinedly down at the floor, grateful that Hosea kept his eyes on the horizon, deliberately no doubt. 

"It's not like that-he's not like that." He won't disrespect Hosea enough to deny his own feelings, his own signals, and the man turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow. 

"Arthur is a son to me, Charles, I know. He's far more conspicuous, than he thinks, gawking at you cutting firewood," Charles chokes on the smoke he's inhaling and Hosea lightly slaps his back, till he signals he's okay. He discards his cigarette and tries to block out the soft laugh Hosea lets out. "I've spent my entire life living outside of the normal rules, Charles, you aren't going to get any judgement from me," His voice is softer, now, quieter, and it relieves him somewhat. Even though they're a good distance from the others, he still feels like he's baring himself for everyone to see, exposed and vulnerable. "He's stubborn as a mule and you are too," Hosea puts his hand on his shoulder then, squeezing lightly and looking at him until Charles will face him. "If this, if _he_ is what you want, you may need to push, take a gamble. He hates himself too much to give himself anything good. And that's what you both deserve, son, something good." Hosea's smile is warm, and Charles sighs, tension smoothing from his shoulders and brow, the older man squeezes his shoulder again and he nods. 

"And if I mess it up?" He asks, not liking the vulnerability in the question, in his voice. 

"We should take chances wherever we get them, Charles, this world is unkind," He pauses and there's sadness in his eyes. He thinks of the photo by Hosea's bedroll. "Besides, if there is anyone I trust to do right by him, to understand him, it's you," The weight of it hits him like a train and he nods minutely in response. Hosea claps him on the shoulder, standing to leave with a grunt and cracking joints. "Why not go take a look for him?" He's left alone, staring out at the horizon and he tries to hold his composure, to stay planted where he is, to not go looking for Arthur, to resist. 

He's climbing up into his saddle before he knows it and riding out into the afternoon sun, eyes scanning the hills for a tall black horse.

***

After the robbery, the mood in camp is better, there's hope in the air, in the way they interact with one another. Dutch spends less of his time staring darkly at his hands, Hosea looks less worried, they drink, they sing, all is well. They all know its temporary, nothing is permanent for them, not even each other. But they have to enjoy the moment, take it with both hands and never let it go. He'd returned late the day after the robbery, and for a while he'd joined in with the joviality, laughing and drinking, but before long it's too much for Arthur to cope with, so he makes himself scarce. He runs bounties out of the local law office, bringing in a snake oil salesman and an odd woman who seemed to enjoy making a widow of herself. He finds the second part of the map that should, _allegedly_ lead him to the Jack Hall Gang's secret stash. He'd damn near fallen off Caliban's seat getting it, but the views from the cliffs had been more than worth the peril. He explores the Heartlands, saves a woman from under her dead horse and rides her home, he fights off O'Driscoll ambushes, pleased to be making a dent in their numbers. He helps Albert Mason take photos of wild horses and finds plants for a friendly man called William, bringing him red bunches of Yarrow and watching with curiosity as he works. He spends a week sleeping under the night sky, moving his tent each day. He'll head back, he says every day as he's settling down for bed, only to come across another place, another campsite, another way to waste time he doesn't have. But it's freeing, hunting for his food and moving on each day, just him and his horse and whatever he can carry. He sings while he rides, under his breath, splashes through the Overflow and runs with the wild horses, Apollo bucking and bouncing with each step.

It's an escape, he knows, from the crushing reality that was settling in around him, the knowledge that for all of them, this only ended one way. No matter what day nor what state they were in, their lives would all end in fire and chaos, _we all have to pay for our sins_. So he rides, he hunts and he observes the world around him. On the quieter paths, he walks beside Apollo, the shire following close behind him and sniffing at the herbs he picks, snatching wild carrots out of his hands before he can react. He's at ease, here, the rules are simple, he can move at his own pace, live by his own laws. This, he supposed, was the freedom Dutch talked about so much. Although for Dutch there was always money and warm weather, idealism personified. Arthur could be content with this, roaming the wilderness 'till he grows old and weary and settling down someplace nobody knows their names or faces. But with the gang the size it is, and the women and Jack, it could never work. 

These trips of his are enough, enough of a respite. Enough of a taste of what his life could be if things were different. 

He's camped high in the hills that straddle the border, an odd tree surrounded by alcohol bottles nearby. It was late afternoon when he'd settled on the spot, more exposed than he'd like, but far enough away from the path that he shouldn't be disturbed. Apollo is grazing behind his tent, spooking when it billows in the wind and drawing a laugh from him, the shire sulking and turning away from him. He can nearly see Saint Denis from here, at night he knows he'll be able to see its lights, some undeniable beauty in their vulgarity, not quite the hopeful glow of a small town in a rainstorm. He'd ride Apollo down to the lake in the evening, get the shire well watered for the night and give himself a wash, it was a routine he'd settled into, tracking down the nearest water source once he'd settled on a campsite. He leans forward, warming a cup of coffee over the fire, disrupted from his task at the sound of hooves from behind him, Apollo's head snapping up, grass hanging from his mouth as he scans the landscape, ears flicking back and forth. He watches the shire for his reaction, and turns when he begins to walk towards the source of the noise, unable to stop himself rolling his eyes at him when Taima's face appears from behind the tent, the shire eager to greet her, but keeping his distance while Charles is riding her. 

"You're a hard man to find, Arthur," He starts, jumping down from Taima and coming to stand opposite him. "Hosea was getting worried." Arthur nods, trying to repress the small pang of disappointment he feels. He watches Charles look around his camp, before holding up the mug in his hand, the other man looking at him for a long moment, before shrugging - more to himself than Arthur - and settling himself onto the floor beside him, humming appreciatively when he hands him the mug, digging another cup out of his satchel and warming it for himself. 

"Was gonna come back tomorrow, well, I've said that everyday but I know its been too long, now." Charles looks sceptical, but nods anyways. They stay like that for a while, drinking their coffee and enjoying the afternoon sun, low and bright on the horizon, Arthur relishing the feeling of it on his side, warming his cheek. 

"This is a nice spot," Charles says, placing his empty cup down by the fire and adjusting himself, one leg crossed under him and the other propped up, one arm resting on his raised knee. "Found anything interesting?" Arthur stacks his cup on Charles', stretching out his legs to the side of the fire and nodding. 

"Thing or two, I suppose, got some treasure map from a strange man, dealt with more O'Driscolls than I can count, ran a couple of bounties out of Valentine," He pauses then for a long moment, considering Charles. "There's one up in Strawberry you could help me with, not sure how wise it is to show my face there just yet." Charles nods, reply almost instant. 

"Sure, I'd be happy to help," The silence returns until Charles stands, walking to Taima and adjusting his saddle. The others have come looking for him before, Charles had, too, back before the Blackwater mess. This time seemed different, like he didn't know what to do, like he didn't want to leave. Arthur bites the inside of his mouth at the realisation that he doesn't want Charles to leave, either. Charles turns back to him, at last, a strange expression on his face. "I'm going to head back, I'll see you-"

"You don't have to," he blurts, Charles looking at him in surprise. _Not as surprised as I am, Christ, Morgan_. "Go back, I mean. S'getting late, got more than enough food for the both of us, can head back together tomorrow, if you want." Charles looks at him, looks around the camp, looks back off towards Horseshoe Overlook, then back to him; Arthur can feel the cogs turning in his mind and half expects steam to start coming from his ears. 

"Would be nice to get a night away from camp," He replies, offering Arthur a small smile, then gesturing back to Taima. "Got my bedroll but no tent, though." He says somewhat sadly, and Arthur looks to his tent and takes a gamble. 

"Could share, its just one night." Charles follows his look to the tent, before nodding, turning back to Taima and starting to unfasten her saddle. 

Arthur crawls over to the tent, rearranging his things and pulling his bedroll over to one side, it would be tight, but it would hardly be the first time he'd shared with someone, they'd make it work. 

He busies himself making some improved arrows, not missing how Charles watches him, watching a small smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Charles gets his things sorted in the tent before coming to sit beside him, mortar and pestle balanced on his knee, a collection of pink petals beside him and an arrow held delicately in his hands. He looks over at him after a while, curious about the green paste he was lining the arrows with; _definitely not_ fixated on the deftness of Charles' fingers as they work. Charles must have noticed him, by now, he realises, so he scrambles to find an excuse, to find words. 

"What're you working on?" He asks eventually, shifting his focus back to the arrow held carefully in Charles' hands. 

"Poison arrows, my uncle taught me to make them when I was very young," he places the completed arrow with a pile of others at his side, grabbing the mortar and pestle and gently grinding the paste contained within. "Not very nice, but effective," Arthur hums, watching him work, thinking Charles is done. He should have realised by now that he wasn't, but Arthur is nothing if not a _fool_. "If you find me some Oleander, I'll make you some." He says and Arthur nods.

"You want me to go pick you some flowers, Charles?" He asks with a laugh and Charles just rolls his eyes, but there's a smile on his face that makes his chest hurt. 

"Some poisonous ones, yes." 

"Sounds like the perfect gift to woo an outlaw with." It slips out before he can stop it, and Charles looks at him with a raised eyebrow. 

"Is that what you're doing, Arthur?" For a long, terrifying moment, Arthur doesn't know whether he's joking, Charles is so goddamn serious all the time it can be hard to tell. But then Charles just smiles at him, laughing. "I'm more of a bluebonnet man, myself." Arthur laughs with him, chest still tight and cheeks warm with a flush, but he recovers. 

"Whiskey for me." Charles laughs again and Arthur settles back, laying back with his arms propping him up behind him, closing his eyes and soaking up the last of the afternoon's sun. 

Charles watches Arthur lay his hat gently at his side, shrugging his coat off so he lays there in his shirt, top buttons undone, a serene smile on his face as he closes his eyes and basks in the sun. He nearly snaps an arrow trying to focus on it too hard, rather than gawking at the other man. He should've said no, should've gone back to camp, but Arthur had sounded so hopeful, so pleased to see him that Charles' usually strong resolve had crumbled instantly. And tonight, they'd be sharing a tent. _Arthur made him a fool._

Hosea's words were plaguing his mind, he knew he was right. Handling Arthur, he'd come to learn, required a multitude of things, but patience was chief among them, along with a willingness to be forceful. He'd exercised it before, hushing him and speaking his mind bluntly, but now it required far more than that, far more than Charles was sure of. He didn't much enjoy being vulnerable to others, and that was what it would require; baring himself to the other man and hoping he'd reciprocate. He should've gone back to camp, or holed up somewhere alone until he could figure it out, figure out a plan and put it into action. But instead, he'd ridden out like a fool and tracked him for two days, just because Hosea had suggested it, because Hosea had filled him with this hope that maybe, just maybe Arthur wouldn't look at him with hatred if he knew about the tightness in his chest when he smiled at him. Arthur moving from beside him pulls him from his thoughts, watching the other man roll his stiff shoulders, coat sliding back onto his shoulders and standing. 

"Gonna head down to the lake, take a wash and get him watered," He knows Arthur will ask him to come, because he's polite, _because he's Arthur._ But he'll say no, because he'd gone into town for a bath that morning anyways when he'd woken with aching shoulders, but also because he cannot trust himself with that situation, can't trust himself not to fuck it up. "You want to come?" Charles has his response ready long before the words leave Arthur's mouth. 

"I'll stay here, cook us some food, would you take Taima?" Arthur nods, offering him a small smile before standing, pulling his rifle from his saddle but leaving it by the tent, riding Apollo bare and getting Taima's attention before heading down towards the Lake, stopping to give him a small wave. "Enjoy." He says, waving Arthur off and drawing his knees up towards his chest once he's out of sight, burying his face in his hands and cursing himself, the world, _whoever the hell_ it was that decided that this should be his path. He doesn't allow himself to wallow for long, though, he needs to keep busy, keep his composure and _absolutely not_ think about how Arthur's hair had glowed in the golden light of the sun. 

So he stands, bunching up his arrows and crafting equipment and placing them in a pile beside his saddle, pulling out the venison he'd butchered on his hunt earlier that day and rubbing it with a mixture of herbs before placing it on the grating Arthur had set up over the fire. He gets another pot of coffee going, too, placing it to the side of the fire to let it warm gradually. A shiver runs down his spine, up on the hill the breeze was stronger and it subdued the warmth of the waning sun on his cheeks, signalling the coming of a chilled night. He retrieves his worn pullover from his saddle, pulling it over his head and peering into the tent; the night would be cold, he couldn't make an excuse and sleep outside, and he couldn't leave, Arthur had seemed so pleased that he'd taken him up on his offer, he'd been out on his own for a week now so it made sense that he'd want some company, not that Charles made the best of company out in the wilderness as Uncle had made very clear to him more times than he could count. 

A hawk passes overhead, soaring easily on the wind, banking to make a wide circle, gradually becoming each time she passes over head. Charles watches, settling back down by the fire. A sudden turn, she dives, the sudden speed impressive, vigorously flapping her wings to ascend back into the sky, a screeching rodent clasped tightly in her talons. She turns, soaring down to the forests that mark the border and disappearing into the dark trees; he's missed this, being out in the world, in nature, experiencing the world as it should be experienced, not corrupted by men and their greed. He turns the meat on the gauze, pressing it down against the metal with his knife and settles back, prodding at the fire with a stick, he needs to keep his hands busy, needs to stay occupied, needs to- 

"Food almost done?" He nearly jumps as he turns, hand halfway to his gun belt, but immediately relaxing when he recognises that drawl and finds Arthur dismounting from Apollo, the shire walking to join Taima by a longer patch of grass, hat in his hands and hair swept back behind his ears, dark with water. Charles nods, leaning forward again to press the meat against the metal with a satisfying hiss. Arthur passes behind him, deliberating over his saddle for a moment before slotting his rifle back into it; Charles doesn't miss how he pulls out his shotgun and places it on his side of the tent. 

"How was the lake?' He asks, turning the meat one last time and splitting the large slabs into smaller chunks, small enough for them to eat in one. Arthur settles back beside him at the fire, legs drawn up close to his body and sporting a tan fur lined coat inevitably his shirt however was left open at the top despite the chill. He can't think of a time when he'd seen Arthur with all his buttons up; the fact that this is an observation he can make speaks volumes about his current predicament. 

"Alright, real pretty down there, this time of day," He replies, leaning forward with his knife to stab at the meat, Charles turning to look at him with a raised eyebrow. "I've been ridin' all day, I'm hungry." Charles rolls his eyes but relents, stabbing his own piece and settling back to eat, the food decent enough for what he has to work with. 

"Better than Pearson's stew I hope." He says lightly, leaning forward to grab another piece and feeling his shoulders loosen when Arthur hums in agreement. 

"Not a difficult achievement but yes, miles better," He pauses, staring into the fire; Charles can feel him thinking. "Definitely better than what I would have made myself, always burning shit." 

It's _nice_ , this. Sitting with Arthur, a comfortable silence between them as they eat, Apollo and Taima grazing nearby and the sun beginning to set over on the horizon. Between their mad rush down the mountains and being cooped up in Horseshoe, he'd had little time to appreciate the world around him but now, if only for a moment, he can. So he listens to the evening birdsong, memorises the feel of the evening breeze on his face, chilling his nose but not enough to bite at him. He watches Arthur, who seems to be wrapped up in his own mind, running his hands absentmindedly through his drying hair, looking out down the hill and letting a deep sigh leave his chest. He's good company, the only Charles had ever really sought out, the only one he'd trusted to hunt Bison with him, there was more to him, under the anger and criminality, something softer, decent. _A good man_. He was determined to make Arthur see that. 

They watch the sun die on the horizon together, Arthur sat with his legs out in front of him again, hands braced behind him, the sky above them a silent, blazing inferno. 

"Don't much see why people are so obsessed with civilisation when there's things like this." Arthur says softly, eyes cast skyward, illuminated in the orange glow.

"Me neither." Charles replies; he's not looking at the sky. Arthur turns to look at him, then, and he doesn't have the chance to look elsewhere because Arthur is smiling at him, all crooked teeth and warm eyes, the sun forming a halo behind his head; Charles can't breathe for a long moment. 

The sun falls below the horizon and he can breathe again, the sky shifting from purple to blue and then black in quick succession; he hardly notices. He occupies himself with prodding at the fire again, blowing against the embers at its edges and sitting back with satisfaction when their orange glow bursts into small flames, crackling and flickering in the breeze. He doesn't see how Arthur watches him the entire time, doesn't see the expression on his face as he coaxes the flames, the warmth in his eyes as Charles pours them each a coffee, carefully schooling his features back into nonchalance when he turns to hand it to him. 

As the night crawls closer, the moon rising behind them and stars starting to appear in the sky, Arthur pulls out his journal and is lost to the world for a while, Charles flicking his eyes up from the Bison horn in his hands every now and then to watch him. He turns the horn over in his hands, running his finger's over its uneven surface and poking its point contemplatively, he has yet to think of something to do with it, yet. He feels eyes on him, and looks up to find Arthur looking at him over the top of his journal, quickly looking away to focus on the pages in front of him. It happens a few times, more that Charles doesn't notice, quick flicks upwards, stolen glances by the firelight. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that Arthur was drawing him. 

He lets out an involuntary yawn, rubbing at his tired eyes before standing, hearing Arthur moving beside him, putting away his journal and watching him as he moves around the fire. 

"It's been a long day," He starts, Arthur just nodding in response. "I'll make sure the horses are settled in, then I'm gonna turn in." Another nod, a small smile, and he turns, walking behind the tent to find where Taima and Apollo have ended up.

As soon as Charles' back turns to him, Arthur is stumbling over himself in his haste to reach the tent, shedding his coat and awkwardly shimmying out of his jeans, glad he'd decided to pull on his Long Johns that morning. He dispenses quickly of his shirt, knowing that despite the chill in the air, he'll burn up in it once under the fur blanket he had balled up at the end of the tent. He's pulling it up and over his legs as Charles appears at the entrance to the tent, sitting in the opening to kick off his boots and pulling his shirt and coat over his head before sliding backwards onto his bedroll. The tent falls closed and Arthur lays still on his back, staring up at the canvas billowing softly in the breeze, shuffling over when Charles lays back, pulling his own blanket up and over his bare chest; he makes it a point not to look too hard. 

It dawns on him now how badly he's fucked up, all he can feel is the warmth from Charles beside him, his soft breaths the only noise in the tent as they both lie stock still, staring up at the canvas and waiting, for what, is unclear. The silence goes on too long, it becomes stifling, and Arthur wants to dive out of the tent and disappear into the night, but he stays, rigid and motionless, like if he tries hard enough Charles might think he's asleep. He's a fool, _a goddamn fool_. 

"I spent a few days up in the Grizzlies." Charles says at last, cutting through the silence effortlessly. His voice sounds strange and he hazards a look over at him, unable to make out his expression through the gloom. 

"Its nice, up there." He replies, more as a test to see if his voice still works. Charles hums in agreement. 

"Hosea thought we were hunting together, he was surprised when I came back alone," Theres a pause, and he hears movement, determinedly keeping his eyes trained on the lightly billowing canvas above their heads. "Told me you were planning a trip, to Big Valley." He glances over briefly, and finds that Charles is now facing him, propped up on one arm and looking at him intently. 

"Was figurin' out a route that would take us through some good hunting areas, thought it would make a nice change of pace." His voice is quiet, cautious, and he curses himself, curses Hosea, he'd give him an earful when-

"I agree." Charles replies, and Arthur's breath hitches loud enough for the other man to hear; he doesn't comment on it, but he doesn't look away, either. Overcome by sudden confidence, he turns his head, still flat on his back, and meets Charles' gaze through the darkness, hair flowing over his strong shoulders and framing his cheeks, he's thrumming with nervous energy, hands twitching like they do before a gunfight, but he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what Charles is thinking, doesn't- 

" _Arthur,_ " Charles' voice is soft, vulnerable, nervous; he's never seen him like this. He adjusts himself, pushing up on an elbow and turning slightly, meeting Charles' look head on. They stare at each other through the darkness for a long, quiet moment, the only sound around them the buzz of insects outside; and owl hoots somewhere far away and Arthur feels a hand on his arm, holding soft but firm. "Tell me to stop and I will, and we can forget this." Charles says softly. 

He's at a crossroad, looking at Charles, feeling the warmth of his hand on his arm, chest swelling with a whole mix of emotions that make him feel light headed. He steadies himself, looking down and saying a silent prayers to whoever will listen before meeting Charles' eyes again, taking a gamble, taking the chance laid out in front of him; a leap of faith. 

" _Don't, please, don't_." 

He doesn't know who moves first, who closes the gap between them, but before he knows it Charles is kissing him, soft and chaste, pulling back and watching him carefully, unsure of himself. 

"Arthur, if this isn't what you want-" 

" _Hush, you damn fool._ " Arthur grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him into another kiss, Charles pausing for a moment before reacting, pushing back against him until Arthur's on his back, Charles propped up above him and kissing him until his chest burns. They break apart for a second and Arthur's hands run along his shoulders, one hand reaching his cheek and his thumb tracing the scar indented in the skin there. Charles' eyes flutter closed and he leans up, biting at his lower lip till he presses him back against the floor and kisses him senseless. 

_At last, he understands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite this about 5 times before I was happy with it, so i hope you enjoy! Please do let me know if you did :)
> 
> Have a wonderful day/night!


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